


Trickster

by Holysmokesboy



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-09-25 08:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9811919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holysmokesboy/pseuds/Holysmokesboy
Summary: "You want to know how I got like I am. I am fearless because I've been afraid. If you want to stand up to those bullies without hesitation, you have to realise that nothing and no one can get in your way. Now, i'll ask one more time, what scares you?"A story in which Jerome finds a new play thing, only, little did he know that the joke was on him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello lovely people! This is my first fic i've ever posted so i hope you enjoy it. Feedback is much appreciated and thank you for reading ( ^ω^ ) (Note: There is no underage content in this fic anything that might happen between them will be when they are older, even if they do develop romantic feelings as teens.)

Blood swirled into the drain for a few seconds until the water ran clear again. Jerome stared at his glistening palms, fighting the urge to vomit that boiled in his gut and collected in pools in his jowls. His body fought against him, sending him signals that he should be sickened, yet somehow Jerome's mind never seemed clearer. Clots of blood clung to his cheeks and hair. He washed that away too, reluctantly dunking his head into the sink. When he lifted his head he grimaced, the blood may have disappeared but the purple tinge of fresh bruises lingered under his skin. Wincing, Jerome felt a sharp pang in his ribs that paralysed his torso, leaving him clutching at the porcelain basin trying desperately to control his breathing.

He lifted his sullied navy shirt to look at the damage. As he had suspected, a large red flowery blotch about the size of a fist seemed to become more and more saturated before his eyes. Blobs of purple had formed in the middle already.

He kicked away the clothes near his feet with belligerence, as if the objects around him were offensive. They saw what he did. The caravan was too suffocating, closing in on him tighter and tighter. Jerome needed to get out.

Jerome stepped over his creation - and what a wonderful creation it was. The crimson paint spilled all over the carpet, flecked onto the walls and some even reached the ceiling. The remains of a cry seemed to murmur in the gaping mouth. He stared, captivated by the way the blood kept pushing its way through the open flesh on her chest. Her charcoal hair fell in disarray around her head like a dishonourable halo. A collar had formed around her throat, bruised a pretty shade of blue and purple.

With a calculated tug, Jerome carefully opened the door and stepped out the caravan, making double sure no one was awake. Jerome was pretty confident she was already dead (or at least on her way) by the time he had impulsively grabbed the knife from the kitchen. Shame, Jerome would have loved to hear her scream. The knife. Sighing, he reached into the caravan, grasped the tainted blade and mentally planned to hurl it into the Gotham river.

He took one last look at the woman that used to be, and ran.

The towering body of Gotham grew closer and closer as his legs carried him onto the bridge. Not once stopping his expeditious sprint, Jerome flung the knife into the river (the thought of it accidentally flying towards a boat and lodging firmly into someone's neck amused him). Jerome entered the winding maze of streets - he didn't know where he was going but he couldn't find it within himself to care. It felt as if his heart pumped electric shocks through his veins and his throat burned from heaving the cold night air. Ignoring the nagging pain that throbbed in his ribcage, Jerome headed down a wide road, well light by warm street lamps.

With strenuous force Jerome skidded to a halt. His feet and fingers tingled and it seemed that his lungs had caught up to his mad sprint, nearly winding him. He stumbled drunkenly for a few feet, his battered ribcage screaming in agony. Shallow breaths escaped his lips, every inhalation was constricted by a pressure on his lungs that seemed to persist. He really shouldn't have sprinted that far with his ribs the way they were. Jerome shivered. The chilled air seeped through the teen's jacket, raising goosebumps on his arms.

When Jerome looked back to the Circus he couldn't see the tents - they were engulfed in darkness, no longer existing to Jerome. The approaching rumble of an engine accelerating behind him shot a spike of adrenaline back into his legs as he jumped out of the road and onto the pavement.

The buildings stretched up to the purple sky and cast jet black alleys to either side of the road. A buzz of something unfamiliar and exciting washed over him. Jerome giggled to himself; he had no idea where to go.

A pull of curiosity lured Jerome down one of the alleys. He knew that his risk of being spontaneously stabbed was now significantly higher than beforehand, however, considering his newly established reputation as a _murderer_ , Jerome decided to take his chances.

A few metres into the dingy alleyway Jerome had already nearly tripped on a discarded box, stepped in a mysterious liquid and hit his head on a gas pipe. The passage turned the corner into a small street where he saw the pale blue glare of city lights and an arrangement of dumpsters either side. Jerome noticed a door creak open and receded into the shadows. He lingered by the corner that turned into the street, half concealed by a brick wall, watching.

A very slim, elegant woman wearing thin heels and a long brown coat stepped out. She pushed a lock of brunette hair behind her ear and leaned down to someone at her side as she strode down the steps. Attached to her arm was a small boy in a black suit sheltered by a puffy jacket, shuffling awkwardly behind his mother. Jerome smirked at that. The kid resembled a miniature version of his father, who followed behind them.

The boy had rosy cheeks and a pink nose from the cold. Pristine black locks were slicked down in curves atop his head with something shiny. He hugged his jacket tighter through his pockets and giggled at the way his breath produced small puffs of white air. As they walked, they carried themselves with a certain dignity and confidence. The father chuckled at something the woman muttered and shuffled his fists in his pockets. The boy craned up between both of them, smiling blithely, his hand still clasped around his mother's.

Jerome noticed a sound from behind him, the blunt trod of a heavy-footed man, speed walking through the alley. The teen shrank into the brick wall he leant against and tried to subtract as much attention from himself as possible, averting his gaze to the grey concrete floor. Fortuitously, the man marched right pass Jerome, not so much as lifting his head. He was stout and stiff, his hands lodged in the large pockets of his jeans - which seemed two sizes two big for him. Not only his trousers, but his hoodie too. Every inch of his body was concealed in thick, dark cloth.

That hooded figure hurriedly positioned himself in front of the family. Their faces dropped. The boy's eyebrows knitted in confusion whereas his father's face had turned to rigid stone.

Jerome heard a muffled "Gimme your money", and it clicked in his mind what was happening in front of him. A sudden swelter of concern developed in Jerome. _Should he step in?_

No, of course not. He had his own mother's blood on his shirt (although he had covered it with a jacket so it was undetectable for now) and this would only bring the cops right to him. He persisted his observation though, as he felt that he couldn't leave without seeing how something like that would pan out.

The woman, giving a nervous glance to her husband, swallowed firmly and pursed her lips. Her husband was calm and austere in the face of threat, offering his watch and wallet to the hooded man. This was not sufficient to the mugger though, as his head turned to the woman's chest. Or rather, her necklace. Gleaming, pure pearls sat around her neck proudly. She turned pale and stepped back. Her lips quivered slightly and she shook her head fervently.

With rugged yet concerned countenance, the father gave her a look at that said 'just do it.' The son, who was watching the whole exchange, had started to gape and shiver; his head flew left and right in an attempt to discern his parents' reactions.

Obviously growing agitated with how the mugging was proceeding, the hooded man fumbled about in his huge jean pockets to reveal a small but alarming silver gun. It glinted in the moonlight like a blade. Jerome's heart rate quickened. _How exciting_.

At this, the poor boy looked as if he would burst from fright. His eyes grew as big as the moon that hung above them and his legs shook like he was balancing on the ground beneath him. The mother removed the pearls and reluctantly handed them to the mugger.

The hooded man looked at the father, the mother and the boy, then back at the father, aimed the gun... and pulled the trigger.

Jerome jumped out of his skin, covering his mouth as to not yelp. He heard a fractured scream from the woman and saw her cheeks flood with tears. The father's body swayed, collapsed at the knees, then collided bluntly with the solid concrete road. His white shirt bloomed with a rich shade of red.

Another ear piercing bang bounced along the walls of the alley, ringing out and causing Jerome to flinch again.

She fell with grace, silently. There was a muted thump as her head hit the ground.

The hooded man sprinted away, turning into another alley and disappearing into Gotham city.

Jerome's eyes were fixated on the blood that spread across the pavement slowly, wondering if they were dead yet. And if not, how much longer would it would take for them to die. Such a strange night indeed. He figured he should leave, get back to finding a place to stay - when a peculiar sound scratched at his ears.

Between the two bodies, curled into a tight ball was the boy. His nose brushed the pavement and his arms clasped his stomach, reaching and grabbing further and further up his sides, sliding down then starting again. He was shaking intensely, blubbering incoherent vowels that he seemed to choke on. From his throat a pained cry escaped, shattering into a hiccup then a whimper. Jerome watched him for a good minute or so, completely entranced.

Just as Jerome turned his heels and readied himself to leave the show, a broken howl tugged something in his chest. He gulped.

He sauntered over to the messy tangle of cries on the ground. The boy was so overwhelmed that he didn't even notice Jerome's presence until he placed a hand on his quivering shoulder. In an act of abject terror, the boy flinched with his entire body, flying backwards onto his butt and gasping. When he saw that it was not the mugger his face seemed to soften. Jerome watched the boy's eyes well up with shiny blobs of tears and smiled sympathetically.

"You okay kid?" He knew it was a stupid question the second it left his mouth - but it was better than nothing. The boy's face turned downcast as he avoided eye contact and tried to sit up straight. He shook his head. Tears fell from his eyelashes and his lips formed a wavering line as he bit his lip painfully hard.

"Hey... what's your name?" Jerome spoke with the softest voice he could conjure and crouched low to stay close to the boy. He was good at playing innocent. There was a long pause where the kid tried to control his breathing. However this soon turned into hyperventilation. "Hey, hey it's okay ahh.. jesus haha um just breathe with me okay."

Jerome inhaled deeply, held it for a moment, and exhaled. Another pang of pain in his ribs, gritted his teeth and ignored it. Upon the repetition of breaths he noticed that the kid had stopped shaking. Weakly, the boy breathed in sync with Jerome, his tears had left glistening wet patches under his eyes but they had seemed to stop spilling. After around six huge breaths, Jerome stopped and waited for the boy to respond.

"B-Bruce." He had croaked so quietly Jerome almost didn't hear it. Bruce's eyes opened for the first time since his panic attack. They looked into Jerome's, big and watery and grey as steel. "My name is Bruce."

"Bruce. Good." Jerome repeated with a reassuring smile. He'd be damned if he didn't at least help this kid from having another panic attack. Jerome knew how it felt to be in Bruce's position - alone and abandoned in a loveless place. If he had left the kid then that was just one more person to turn out like him.

"Now Bruce, can you stand for me?" Jerome stood up and extended a hand to Bruce, who eyed it cautiously. A few seconds passed before he placed his hand on Jerome's, reluctantly at first, then grasped it firmly. He levered himself up with strained effort, as if his body was dead weight. Teetering slightly, Bruce placed another hand on the older boy's forearm. Jerome, however, felt that one small shove would send him teeth-first into the cement. He was dizzy and his ribs were throbbing in a constant dull pain. Every now and then he would move awkwardly and there would be a shock of pain to remind Jerome of his injury - and how he acquired it.

Jerome could tell Bruce was avoiding the sight of his parents as if his life depended on it so he lead the boy away slowly. Jerome would have called the cops but he realised he had no phone on him. Or any money. He would ask someone else to, just in case, and then vamoose before they arrived. He couldn't get put on record, or interviewed, or bombarded with questions, or even be seen near the scene or else who knows what they could conjure about him. He could just see it now, _"Teen goes on killing spree! Three innocents dead in one night!"_

Bruce analysed Jerome's face - seemingly trying to decipher how much he could trust him.

"I'm going to go get someone." Jerome motioned for Bruce to stay put and cautiously ambled to the end of the street, hoping to see someone passing by. Someone must have heard the shots. Right?

Luckily, a lady walking a small white dog was traipsing through the next alley. She was dark in complexion, short and very round, wearing a sky blue coat that bounced out against the the shadows behind her. Jerome hurriedly jogged over to her, readying himself to spout whatever floated to the top of his head.

"Hey um, I heard some gunfire back in an alley over there do you think you could call the cops? I don't have a phone." Jerome rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans and gulped.

The woman shot him a quizzical look before her face turned to worry, the lines in her forehead drawing together deeply. "Oh - yes of course." She complied calmly, something about her demeanour suggested to Jerome that this was not her first run in with the crime of Gotham. That was not surprising.

Jerome left the woman as she was giving the cops the address and found his way back to Bruce. He prayed that Bruce was still there and relatively collected, Jerome could not deal with any more drama that night. Rather confused, Jerome tried to figure out just why he had stayed to help anyway. This wasn't his business. In fact, what was the point in him even trying to stay on the right side of the law when he had snapped into a new field of mentality just an hour or two ago.

Sighing deeply, Jerome rounded the corner and saw Bruce cradled up against the wall with his palms pressed firmly into his eye sockets. What was he gonna do with this kid? Jerome stalked towards him and stood over the frail boy. He leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder. "I have to go but the cops will be here shortly-"

"Don't leave me alone with them." Bruce peered up, his puffy pink cheeks spreading colour like water on ink. Chewed and swollen, his bottom lip was berry red and hanging from his mouth, quivering. And his eyes, his desperate, wet eyes that seemed to glow in the city lights. "Please."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter to get this ball rolling. I'm not sure how often i'll end up posting but hopefully i can get new content up weekly. I decided to use italics to show some character thoughts and flashbacks so hopefully that works okay (:
> 
> (Also i recently discovered that i train at the same theatre that Sean Pertwee trained at and totally flipped my shit. Alfred!!!)

"So how old are you?" Jerome slid against the wall and sat down next to Bruce. The bodies were out of view from where they were sat, but their presence lingered in Bruce's mind, plaguing his thoughts with red. Jerome had agreed to stay, at least until the cops arrived, and Bruce was incredibly thankful that he wouldn't have to be alone, left with the events of the night mulling in his head.

Bruce shook, his lips twitching fervently and his eyes chained to the pavement. Within his erratic breathing, small jabbers of vowels escaped, but nothing that formed a word.

"You have to be stronger than this Bruce. Take control over your body, your emotions. It's the only way you'll get through this quickly." Bruce listened, turning to look at Jerome, but still said nothing. "I promise you Bruce, the shithead who did this to you is done for. He won't get away with this."

Bruce pondered the words for a moment before swallowing a shudder. "Twelve." He stammered out. "And you?"

"Fourteen." Jerome stretched one leg out, leaning his arm on the knee of the other. He looked at Bruce closely, noting his strong, dark brows and subtle freckles. Cute. "So do you have anyone to go back to?"

Bruce's eyebrows pulled close and Jerome wondered if the wound was still too raw to bring up his future. "Alfred. I'll still have Alfred. He's my butler."

The nonchalant way that Bruce said that word, _butler_ , amazed Jerome to no end. He stared, wide eyed, for a moment. "Your... butler? You have a butler?"

"Yes. He's very kind - I trust him to take care of me. Actually, I wonder where he is, he's going to have to pick me up from here." The boy's voice was articulate, well educated. However, his throat seemed to waver with every word.

"I'm sure that the cops will get here soon, then they can call him."

There was a long pause where both boys didn't know what to say. Jerome rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Bruce, on the other hand, was fighting a loosing battle against his shudders. He hugged his knees to his chest and kept his vision unblinking. If he closed his eyes, he would only see them again.

"I never asked your name." The words cracked the silence, landing heavy in the air as Bruce waited for the older boy to respond.

"Jerome." Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he sighed. The throttling pain in his ribs had subsided, leaving Jerome with the tender, mushy flesh of a monumental bruise. He prodded it and hissed. _That asshole_. "I lost my mother today as well you know."

"You did?" Bruce was perplexed, shocked that something so horrible could happen to two people at the same time. He studied Jerome's face, noticing that the boy's eyes were rimmed with red.

This was not what Jerome had planned. In his head the image replayed of that disgusting man.

_His foul breath clouded the air and his chubby, grimy fingers were digging into Jerome's wrist. He stank of cigarettes and sweat. There was perspiration dripping from his uneven hair and scratchy stubble. His face was stretched into an ugly grimace and he was sure he could hear his teeth grinding. And his mother, she just sat there and laughed, cackled like a witch and egged him on to hit Jerome again. Harder._

"I got up from bed to see her on the floor of our kitchen. It was her boyfriend I just know it was. He was drunk, he knocked me around pretty badly before he..." Jerome stopped himself, he hadn't even noticed that his eyes had welled up and the twitch in his fingers was now involuntary. He knew how to act vulnerable, he could recreate the hand gestures, the tone of voice and the facial expressions of those he'd seen in pain. This was just an act to him, granted a painful one, but he was pretending. At least he convinced himself he was.

"I'm so sorry to hear that." When the older boy met eyes with Bruce the breath caught in his throat. For a moment, Jerome felt guilty for lying. Bruce's sincere eyes seemed to latch onto Jerome, finding comfort in his mere presence.

Eager to lighten the mood, Jerome stood up and extended a hand to Bruce, who gradually heaved himself onto his feet. His shoulders were hunched and his head stooped low with the melancholy of a hanged man.

"Hey, head up." Jerome ordered, tilting the boy's jaw with his fingertips. "You're a good kid. Don't let tonight ruin your future."

Jerome looked up at the moon and stars, just visible through the smog of Gotham. Finally he could see that nothing in his life up to that night mattered - it was all gone. His mother, her boyfriend(s), the jerks at the circus.

"You ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?"

"Huh?" Bruce queried.

"It's from a play I saw as a child. A character - the antagonist, takes everything away from the hero, his money, his wife, his friends and his dignity, leaves him withered on the floor; a husk of his former self." Jerome flew into the memory with high zest, "Later that same day, the villain, (in disguise), offers the hero a chance to have it all back if he would only do one thing."

Enthralled by Jerome's story, Bruce eagerly chirped, "What did he have to do?"

Jerome smirked. "The hero had take a life."

"Dance with the devil." Bruce whispered to himself. "Did he do it?"

Jerome shrugged and chuckled, running a hand through his ginger hair. "I left before I saw the end. Or, well, I was dragged out rather."

Bruce decided he liked Jerome's laugh, finding himself smiling as repercussion; it was lively and animated, illuminating the dismal alley for that small moment. Bruce sucked on his lower lip thoughtfully. "Do you have anywhere to go back to?"

Jerome froze. Jabbing his hands in his pockets and kicking a nearby stone, he laughed nervously. "No. I'll be fine though, i'll find somewhere. It's a big city after all."

"You could always," Bruce cleared his throat, "I mean if you couldn't find anywhere," Jerome cocked an eyebrow and smirked, "I-if you wanted you could-"

"Geez kid spit it out."

"You could stay with me and Alfred. For the night. Until you find somewhere." Bruce looked at the ground, chewing even harder on his lip than before.

Visions of waking in a king sized bed by a butler carrying a silver platter manifested in Jerome's mind. Satin bedsheets and silk robes, champagne glittering between his fingers. Jerome grinned. _This was gonna be fun_. "Sure. Thank you."

A flash of rotating neon blue and red painted the walls and spilled onto the floor of the street, accompanied by the wail of sirens. Jerome's chest pounded as a million different thoughts tangled inside his head, he had readied himself to flee when a stark grip latched onto his arm. Jerome faltered.

"My god. Jim you're not gonna believe this." A rugged voice blurted and Jerome prepared himself to play innocent a little longer.

"Officer!" Jerome croaked. The two boys approached the cop that knelt next to the woman sprawled across the cement. He had a rusty brown hat, tattered jacket, and a coarse face with a half grey half brown beard. Jerome noticed the way Bruce had turned his body away almost entirely, cowering into Jerome's side, adamant on avoiding the unsightly image. "This boy needs to be taken away from here as soon as possible. Is there anywhere we can wait until his butler arrives?"

The cop nodded and motioned to his partner who was climbing out of the car. He had an exhausted face, like he'd been through too much that day and no amount of coffee could prepare him for the workload the two bodies in front of him would deliver. "Do you know these people?" He asked, his voice was husky but held a sincere quality to it.

Bruce nodded, gulping. "They're my, my..."

"His parents." Jerome chipped in, seeing the wound unraveling and opening up in Bruce. The cop's face fell into an expression of condolence, "I see."

"He needs to call his butler-"

"Alfred!" Bruce gushed and sprinted off to their right, towards a man who approached briskly. He wore attire that Jerome felt satisfied the title of 'Butler'. A dark grey pinstripe vest, shiny black tie and pristine white shirt, topped with a black overcoat. Bruce threw himself into the man's arms desperately, bursting into floods of tears. Jerome saw the anguish in his face and averted his gaze, it had brewed a fogginess in his eyes that he denied was real. _All a part of the act_ , he told himself.

The butler covered his mouth with a shaky hand as he approached the cops, Bruce clinging to his arm. Jerome saw that he was holding back tears, puffing out his chest and biting his lip. He seemed like a strong man, not willing to crack in front of Bruce when he needed someone to support him.

"If you wouldn't mind, i'll be taking master Bruce home now. If there's anything you want to hear from him, i'm sure he'll be willing to oblige tomorrow, once he's had time to calm down." Alfred spoke with a thick English accent. Jerome scoffed, _of course he was English_. The cop nodded his head to Alfred and Bruce respectfully before shifting his gaze to Jerome.

"Where do you come into all this."

Jerome replied calmly, "I saw it happen."

"So you saw the killer?" The cop put his hands on his hips. "Could you provide a description for us?"

As Jerome told the cop whatever details he could recall, throwing in a few "i'm not sure"s and "it was dark"s, he saw Alfred lean down to Bruce as they argued about something. Alfred seemed concerned, but Bruce was bouncing on his heels and pleading with his hands together. When Alfred shot a cold glance at Jerome, he understood what they were discussing.

Alfred signalled for Jerome to go over to them with his finger. Jerome conjured the politest smile that he could muster and ambled closer, Alfred's scowling face locking eyes with Jerome intimidatingly. Alfred led Jerome a few metres down the street, away from Bruce. "Now listen here boy, i've agreed to let you stay at the manor because master Bruce says that you helped him earlier - which I appreciate, I do, but just know that if you try any funny business you'll be out the window faster than you can say hopscotch."

Jerome nodded fervently. _Protective_ , he thought, how interesting.

Jerome decided he liked Alfred.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has left nice comments! Here's another chapter, sorry if my story ends up being kind of wishy washy i have a plot planned out but i have no idea how to achieve it •_• Lets just hope this goes well.

Jerome couldn't sleep. He stared at the ceiling, tracing over the intricate wood patterns high above him. The silk bedsheets tangled around his limbs and suffocated him, unfamiliar clothes made him feel like an alien in the wide room. Jerome had bit his tongue when they had pulled up to the mansion in a sleek black car to stop obscene cusses flying from his mouth. It was the biggest house he'd ever seen, spanning the width of at least twenty rooms side to side. The large metal 'W' on the gate had caught the moonlight spectacularly. This kid was richer than he had thought.

A few more mind-numbing minutes passed and before Jerome could start to think about the events of the night again he decided he had to get up. Walk around. Anything.

He rolled lethargically out of the king-sized bed and pressed his feet against the polished wood floor. Jerome slugged towards the door which he carefully pried open, praying that it wouldn't creak and and alarm the butler.

Jerome wandered the labyrinth of halls that were dimly lit by humble lamps and blue light that poured in from the windows. The manor was deafeningly silent, it drove Jerome crazy. His meandering came to a halt when he saw the open space of a library. It was chock-full with reams of books in cases that curved around the outside of the room, framing a centre of brown leather chairs and an ebony coffee table. Sat in one of the chairs was the butler, nose-deep in a thick book that was bigger than his lap.

Cautiously, Jerome turned around, not wanting to disturb the man.

"Master Bruce informed me that you've recently been orphaned, is that right?"

Jerome gulped. "Yes. That's right."

"I'm very sorry to hear that. My condolences." Alfred turned a heavy page. "Do you know who did it?"

"No. But I have an idea." A smirk crossed Jerome's face. _If only he knew._

"Earlier, in the alley, I need to know, did you see them? The person that..." Alfred cleared his throat and closed the book, Jerome could now see the shiny pages of a photo album.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I never saw his face."

Alfred stared at the floor for a moment, thinking. Then, he stood up and slotted the book into the bottom corner of a bookshelf, and walked out. "Goodnight."

  
The next morning Jerome woke up on one of the sofas in the library, clutching a copy of Alice In Wonderland to his chest. The smell of coffee drifted through the air and Jerome followed the trail right to the kitchen. Bathed in sunlight, it was welcoming and lively. However, sat at the counter looking as empty as ever was Bruce, cradling a cup of black coffee between his hands, with intense dark circles drooping from his red eyes. He wore a loosely fitting black sweater that seemed to swallow him, only his pale fingers poking out of the sleeves.

Wearing a white apron and flipping a pancake was Alfred, looking almost equally haggard. "Good morning Master Jerome." Jerome nearly choked. _Master Jerome._ "I hope some sleep found you eventually." He slid the pancake onto Bruce's plate, who picked up his fork with the enthusiasm of a slow loris.

"Detective Gordon will be here soon so while he's with Bruce feel free to use any one of the bathrooms to clean yourself up, i've left clean clothes for you on your bed."

Jerome stood speechless, nodding his head like an idiot before stuttering out a thanks. He could get used to living like this.

 _Bathroom? More like spa_. Jerome ran his fingers over the porcelain of the bathtub - which, Jerome thought, could comfortably fit at least four people in it. He sank into the bubbles and let out a sigh, closing his eyes and resting his head on the side of the tub.

When Jerome was done, he wrapped a soft towel around himself and plodded over to the clothes left on the bed. A light grey t-shirt and blue jeans, _thank god_. Jerome couldn't deny that he expected a fancy-pants shirt and tie considering the manor's extravagant decor.

With a new spring in his step, Jerome went back to the kitchen where Alfred offered him a plate of pancakes piled with whipped cream and strawberries. Jerome swallowed them down so quickly he was sure that he had stopped chewing and started inhaling it. It had to be the best breakfast Jerome had ever eaten in his entire life. That was, until the brooding figure of Bruce with his knees tucked into his chest reminded him of the previous night.

Jerome sat next to Bruce on the leather sofa. Bruce smiled weakly.

"Has that Gordon guy gone now?"

Bruce nodded and stretched his sweater over his knees.

"What did he say?"

"He said he'll do his best to catch the guy that did it."

Jerome's eyes glanced at the flashes of colour that came from the TV, and swore his heart skipped a beat. A blonde news presenter relayed information from a muddy, dishevelled location, litter was strewn across the floor and faded stripes of orange and red flapping in the wind behind her. At the bottom of the screen scrolled the headline:

**'BREAKING NEWS: Thomas and Martha Wayne shot dead outside the Monarch Theatre, more coverage at 10am.'**

However, the reporter wasn't at the theatre, no, she was at the circus.

Flinging his hand towards the remote, Jerome turned up the volume and perched on the edge of his seat.

"A horrific sight for the other circus performers indeed, this morning 36 year old Lila Valeska was found dead in a caravan here at Haley's Circus." Jerome felt Bruce's worried gaze behind him. "The cause of death seems to be strangulation, however the body was stabbed several times after her passing."

Jerome felt a hand on his shoulder, and a small voice, "We can turn it off if you want." The older boy shook his head, he had to know if they were onto him. Jerome's chest pulsed with something that he couldn't quite name.

_Excitement? Or was it anxiety?_

"The GCPD have not released many details about their investigation just yet, however we do know that Lila's missing boyfriend Owen Lloyd is a potential suspect." Jerome grinned to himself; everything was going perfectly! They didn't even know that Jerome was missing. It wasn't surprising in the slightest, the whole circus were probably celebrating that the freakshow had gone. _Roll up! Roll up! Get your tickets to see the creepiest, weirdest, queerest kid in town!_

Jerome turned the TV off and the two boys sat in silence for a moment. Bruce stared at Jerome with confusion in his brow and a frown on his lips.

Beginning to feel uncomfortable, Jerome cleared his throat. "So what's planned for today?"

"How do you do that?"

"What?" Jerome stiffened. "How do I do what?"

The smaller boy untucked his legs from under his sweater and sat cross legged, holding his feet with his hands and cocking his head like a puppy. "You're so...", Bruce scanned Jerome's face, "in control."

Jerome knitted his eyebrows together and scoffed. "What does that mean?"

"I want to learn to control my emotions, like you. I want to be stronger." Bruce stated, puffing his chest out. "From what i've seen of you so far, you're brave, where i've been acting like a baby." He whined, pouting his lips.

Jerome chuckled, he had to admit, the kid was damn interesting. "So you want to be an emotionless hunk of rock with no empathy?" Cocking an eyebrow, Jerome smiled at Bruce's childish mannerisms. When he wasn't traumatised, Bruce was quite cute.

"No I still want to be kind!" He giggled, a sweet sound to Jerome's ears. "I just want to be strong, I wanna stand up to bullies; it's what my parents would've wanted."

"Pffft." Jerome leaned back against the sofa, stretching out his ribs and feeling a faint pang of pain. "I hardly think you will have to face any bullies in your lifetime, kid."

Bruce crossed his arms, "I'll have you know that there's a bunch of kids at my school that bully me! They always make fun of me for being the 'stuck-up rich kid'. Ugh!" Jerome snorted. "Don't even get me started on Tommy - he kneed me in the stomach for no reason last week. No reason! And don't call me kid."

Jerome covered his mouth to stifle a cackle of laughter that bubbled in his throat.

"But don't you go to a private school or something?"

"I used to be homeschooled - until my parents made me go to a public school. They said I needed more friends and that it'll help me adapt to being with people from different social backgrounds." A hint of sadness resonated through Bruce's voice.

"When I was your age I was fending off drunk men, a few teenage beef-heads wouldn't stand a chance against me." Jerome boasted. That was simultaneously the truth and a lie. Jerome _was_ fending off drunk men _as well as_ bullies, but to say he walked away unscathed would be untrue. In fact, to say he _walked away_ at all would be untrue.

Jerome hissed, regretting prodding the bruise - he wanted to test if it still hurt. The answer was yes, it still hurt. The younger boy noticed Jerome's discomfort and contorted his face quizzically, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah yeah, i'm fine. Just a bruise is all. I might have a fractured rib but i'm not sure what that feels like so..."

A slight smirk tugged at Bruce's lips. "Cool! Can I see?"

Jerome hesitated, wondering if he should show the boy the gruesome bruise. To Jerome, it was an irritating reminder of the assholes that inflicted it, but to Bruce, it was a battle scar - the remnants of a tragedy that Jerome had fought through. Sighing, Jerome lifted one side of his shirt up to his ribs .

Bruce's eyes widened, he gasped and reached a slim hand forwards. "That looks painful. Alfred can look at it if you want." Jerome murmured a thanks. The cold touch of Bruce's fingertips caused Jerome to flinch. He dropped the shirt back down and cleared his throat. He could tell that Bruce wanted to ask how he had got it, however, it looked like the boy had decided against it, drawing his hand into his chest and locking eyes with Jerome.

"So can you help me get back at the bullies?"

Jerome swallowed, and stuttered: "I uh, well..."

"You'll be able to stay here at the manor longer."

"Deal."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another chapter! This was my favourite to write so far. Also sorry for the weird confusion with the chapters hopefully everything is cool now. I know these chapters aren't very long but i personally just want to get as much content out as possible so that i can keep moving on with the story.

  
"Hit it harder. No _harder_. Jesus are you trying to knock him out or give him a pat on the cheek? Your arm isn't going to snap in half - or well you might be an exception to that. Did I say stop hitting it? Punch it like it just insulted your grandma. That's what i'm talking about. Yeah scream! Get that rage out!"

The punching bag clunked against the wall and the red-haired teen clapped slowly. Bruce grinned proudly, however, almost immediately after he buckled over, clutching his gloved hand to his chest and cursing. As he turned around, the swinging punching bag smacked him on the back, beating him down to the floor. He groaned, defeated.

Jerome chortled gaudily.

"Master Bruce?" A concerned, yet amused voice piped up from the doorway. Bruce mumbled what sounded like a strained "Yes?" Alfred held a platter with two neatly cut sandwiches and bright orange juice on it. "I thought you boys might want some snacks."

Bruce's head shot up instantly. He scrambled to his feet like a baby deer and Jerome hunched over, breathless from laughter. Bruce violently ripped his gloves off, discarding them onto the floor and grabbing a glass of juice. He chugged half of the glass in one solid gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thank you Alfred."

The butler politely placed the tray on a chair and left the gym - not before shooting an incredibly perplexed look at Jerome and Bruce. He didn't bother asking what they were up to.

"Right. Shake yourself off. Round 2!"

Bruce moaned as he grabbed his gloves again, turning his nose up at the sweat that still lingered on the fabric. "If I knew you were such a harsh coach I wouldn't have even asked."

"You said you wanted to get strong, well, this is how you do it." Jerome leaned against the wall and took at bite of a sandwich. "Resiliance."

Bruce limbered up, bouncing on the balls of his feet and raising his fists to his chin. He striked the punching bag with as much force as his shaky arms could muster.

_Jab, cross, left hook, right hook, uppercut, jab, cross, left hook, right hook, uppercut, jab, cross, left hook, right hook, uppercut._

Bruce stepped back, panting. He looked at Jerome, as if to say "What now?" Jerome smiled and kicked himself off from the wall. He pulled on a pair of padded gloves and stalked towards Bruce until he was about a foot away from him. "Now, you learn how to dodge."

"What- Ow!" Bruce nursed his shoulder, which Jerome had firmly jabbed. Jerome smirked, bringing his fists up and cocking his head at the younger boy. Bruce, catching on, felt a rush of adrenaline course through him as he anticipated Jerome's next strike. He wondered wether he should run away or fall to the ground and crawl through the older teen's legs to escape.

"Ouch! Stop that!" Bruce whined again and Jerome rolled his eyes.

"You're supposed to dodge them, not stand there like a scarecrow." Jerome spat, sighing. He sent a slow, calculatedly unharmful hook towards the side of Bruce's head, not wanting to knock the boy out and deal with _Alfred_. Jerome could just see it, _the butler would storm over with the fury of a mother lion, pelting Jerome with kitchen knives and chairs_.

Abruptly, Bruce swooped down to avoid the punch but at the same time throwing himself off balance, having to use Jerome to steady himself.

Jerome sighed again.

"How about, first to hit the other three times wins?"

 _A challenge_ , Bruce thought. "You're on."

Faster than either of them could say "go" Bruce had pegged it to behind the treadmill, Jerome approached, crouching and slow like a wolf poising itself to strike. He was grinning like a madman and taunting Bruce, his voice taking on a sinister tone, "Oh Bruuucie!"

Jerome was nearing too close for comfort and Bruce sprinted past him, screaming the whole time. Jerome caught Bruce by the waist and the younger boy broke out into ticklish fits of laughter. "No! Get off me!" He guffawed, "Let me go you asshole!"

Jerome gently tapped the squirming boy on the shoulder and proclaimed, "One to me."

Bruce broke free from Jerome's grasp and scrambled to the opposite side of the room, pressing himself up against the wall. "It's interesting how your first instinct is to run away from me." Jerome chuckled. "Come on! Lay one on me." He drummed his chest and spread his arms wide, inviting Bruce to come towards him.

Hesitantly, Bruce edged his way towards Jerome, keeping his eyes trained on his every move. He stopped just outside of arms reach, preparing himself to make a move.

Jerome lunged forward, aiming a hook at Bruce's right arm. Bruce swung his shoulders down to the left, dodging the punch, and sent an uppercut to Jerome's ribs. Impressed with himself, Bruce let out a triumphant laugh and threw his fists in the air. Jerome, however, was doubled over hugging his ribs and hissing.

Bruce's face drained. "Oh my god- I am so sorry. I forgot your ribs were..." Jerome shook his head and kneeled down, his breathing laboured. Bruce placed a glove on the teen's shoulder apologetically.

In one swift motion Jerome sprang up and jabbed Bruce in the gut, earning a winded "oof" sound. "HA! Fooled you. Two to me." He circled Bruce excitedly, bouncing on his toes. The younger boy stared up with what Jerome thought was a hilarious expression of shock, confusion and anger all in one.

Brushing himself off and taking on a combat-ready stance, Bruce huffed and locked eyes with Jerome who cracked his neck threateningly. The two boys circled each other, waiting for the other to make a move first.

Eventually, Bruce lurched forward only to have his punch blocked to the side by the back of Jerome's forearm. Jerome swept his foot behind Bruce's, knocking him onto the soft floor.

Jerome smiled down at Bruce, crouched over him, and planted a playful jab on his chest. "I win." He whispered smugly.

***

  
A peculiar thumping noise woke Jerome that night, it was distant, but routinely sounded every ten seconds or so. He jumped up to investigate, navigating his way through the boundless maze of rooms and hallways. Once again, he found himself in the library where he discovered that the noise had come from none other than Alfred, who was lobbing a pocket knife at a dartboard. He tugged the blade out of the cork, stepped back several metres, and hurled it at the board. _Bullseye_.

"Do you ever sleep?" Jerome questioned. The butler kept his eyes trained on the board. "Or are you like a robot butler?" _Thunk_. "That'll be really cool actually." _Bullseye_.

"I apologise if I woke you. Master Wayne used to come here at night, reading, writing, planning - whatever he did." _Thunk_. The knife missed the board and lodged into the wall. Alfred sighed. "I simply found it a shame that the room should be left to gather dust."

"So you're using it for target practice?"

"Contemplation."

"About...?"

"Master Bruce. He will have to go back to school soon. I'm not sure how well he'll cope."

"Can't he be homeschooled? It's not like he can't afford it." Jerome leaned against the doorframe, some wood creaked under his weight and he briskly hopped away.

"It's what his parents wanted. Speaking of schools," Alfred looked over at Jerome who had started a panic, "what exactly is your situation?"

Jerome knew he was going to ask, and frankly didn't want to answer. "Me? I uh..."

"You're running away aren't you." Alfred imposed, a smile tugging at his lips. Perhaps he admired the audacity of Jerome and his disregard for societal standards. Or maybe he understood him.

Jerome didn't reply.

"You have expressed no intent on going back to any family." Alfred pressed, advancing slowly towards Jerome.

"Well I-"

"And I wouldn't deem it a stretch to assume that you do not wish to return to your school at all."

The teen sighed, fiddling with the hem of his pyjama top. "I just want to reset my life, start new and never look back."

Alfred nodded, "Have you considered a foster family?"

Jerome shook his head and crossed his arms defensively, "I can look after myself." He whined.

The butler turned on his heels and stalked back to the dart board. He yanked the blade from the wall, pieces crumbling onto the floor. He ran his fingers over the hole, looked at the mess on the floor, and let out a pained sigh. "Try to get some sleep."

Jerome turned away, stepping out into the corridor but paused. "Bruce is miserable at his school."

"I know." He heard a quiet voice ring out, "That's why i'm pulling him out after this term."

A wide smile spread ear to ear on Jerome's face. "Then I guess he should go out with a-" he chuckled deviously, "bang."

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! Finally another chapter. In the middle of the night of course. Sorry for the wait i have had a hectic week. Thank you soo much for all the lovely feedback and the hits! Lets try to get this fic to 1000 yeah? Ugh i still have so much i want to cover, so much time to pass, so many characters to introduce! Hopefully within the next few chapters this story will speed up a bit and the fun stuff can start. Just so you know yes a lot of Jerome and Bruce's friendship is going to be fast-forawarded through in order to get to more plot points but hopefully there will be enough there for a good connection between them both.

Bruce cradled his hands to his chest and whinged. They stung with a hot, irritated heat as he dislodged gravel from his palm. He brushed dirt off of his knees, _Alfred was going to kill him.  
_

"It's a bit early in the morning for suicide attempts don't you think?" Bruce jumped out of his skin when he saw Jerome, who was leaning against the doorway in striped blue pyjamas and a mug of coffee between his hands. He wore a sly grin and cocked an eyebrow smugly.

"The idea was that I wouldn't fall." The younger boy quipped. Jerome eyed Bruce sceptically, his gaze darting between the boy and the stone wall that stood nearly twice as tall as him. "Did you even get to the top before you fell?" Jerome meandered over to Bruce, "Because if you did then I would be incredibly impressed."

Bruce cleared his throat, placed his hands on his hips and glared daggers at Jerome - who thought his display of defensiveness was adorable; especially with the little " _hmph_ "noise Bruce made whenever he felt insulted.

"No." He sulked and Jerome opened his mouth to spout a snarky remark, but Bruce interjected, "But I will! Soon."

Jerome sipped from his coffee and studied the wall Bruce had just gracefully cascaded down. "Soon... how about now?"

***

Alfred hummed to himself as he jostled bacon around in a sizzling frying pan, a cooking show filling the air with lively commentary. He chuckled at the host's bad jokes and mentally noted a few tips he might use later. _Ooh rosemary, lovely._

A screech pierced the air, one that Alfred identified as unmistakably Bruce. The butler bolted, spatula in hand and apron flapping, towards the origin of the scream. _Past the dining room, down the hallway, into the living room, through the conservatory, into the second living room, another hallway_. A shrill cry sounded to Alfred's left, the garden, he thought, and gripped the spatula tighter. If it came down to it, he could probably decapitate a man there and then with that spatula.

"Jerome if you drop me a swear to god i'll..."

"You'll what?"

"I'll come into your room at night and cover your floor in vegetable oil!"

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

Panting, Alfred rounded a corner to see Jerome crouching on the floor, Bruce balanced precariously on his shoulders. They were bickering under heavy breath, grunting and groaning as they wobbled. Bruce hooked his arms over the top of the wall, gripping the other side with nimble fingers.

"Good." Jerome strained, his contorted position taking its toll on his stamina. "Now try to swing your leg over."

"My _leg_? I'm not a gymnast Jerome, I can't get it that high."

"What exactly is it that you are trying to achieve, Master Bruce?" Alfred piped up, crossing his arms and watching them in an amused manner, as if they were a form of entertainment. _Which, in a way, they were._

"Alfred!" Startled, Bruce's grip on the wall loosened and he toppled over, collapsing into a squirming mess of twisted limbs and pained groans. Squished, Jerome let out a winded cry for help from underneath Bruce.

Bruce raised his shoulders up, knees still jabbing Jerome in the stomach. He attempted to stand, kneading and prodding Jerome's torso with this hands and knees and apologising under his breath. Jerome rolled over on the grass hugging his stomach and moaning dramatically.

"We were trying to see if I could climb over it." Bruce panted.

"Get back here you heathen and help me up."

Bruce ignored the distressed voice coming from the ground behind him.

Alfred stared at Bruce with confused, judging eyes. _What has gotten into this boy?_ "I see. And you think that being able to scale a garden wall will be a useful skill because..."

Bruce pondered his own logic for a moment. "Agility can help me during combat."

"Combat? Combat with who?!" The butler snapped, beginning to grow worried about Bruce's motives. _Perhaps it had some influence from Jerome, they had been spending a lot of time together._

Bruce gulped, "The bullies."

Jerome staggered up, cracked his back, and let out a cathartic sigh. He sensed tension between the young boy and his career, so he hung back, leaning against the wall.

Alfred rubbed his neck and gave Bruce a concerned look, "As long as you only use these..." he glanced at Jerome, who gave him a coy smile, "skills... in defence and don't go punching people all willy nilly, I suppose you could find benefit in learning a few tactics." Alfred spoke in an unconvinced but condescending manner, deciding it was best to leave Bruce to pursue whatever he wanted as long as he was happy again.

***

"See that bar over there?" Jerome pointed to a tall metal bar used to do pull ups in the manor's gym.

Bruce wiped sweat from his forehead and caught his breath, still a little winded after completing a circuit of press ups and burpees. _Fucking burpees_.

"Yeah. What about it?"

Jerome smiled, and Bruce knew exactly what the older teen had in mind. "You're a cruel, sadistic person."

"Ooh a big word there, you are so posh sometimes it's a joke-"

Bruce kicked the back of Jerome's knee and he yelped, crumpling to the floor. The red-haired boy chuckled, "You're getting better at that."

Bruce crossed his arms proudly, "I know, you could say i'm a natural." He yanked Jerome from the floor, flashing him a cocky smile.

The older teen's eyes lingered on the metal bar for a moment, then back on Bruce, smirking. "Reckon you could do ten pull ups on that bar?"

Bruce moved his face right up to Jerome's challengeingly, "Only if you do it first. Unless you think you can't handle that?"

Jerome licked his lips contemplatively, "You've got balls kid, I like that. Alright, you want a demonstration from the master, that's understandable. Just sit back and take notes."

The older teen shook his arms around, stretched his neck side to side and jumped up - firmly grasping the bar. He heaved himself up once, twice, three times, four times... He strained very slightly but worked through it, completeing all ten in under twenty seconds. Jerome landed gracefully and turned to Bruce, "Your turn."

 _Shit_.

Bruce cleared his throat. "Right. Me. Yes I will just..." he eyed the bar, "grab it and..." he stretched his arms up over his head, noticing that they were still about a foot under the bar. He reached on his tip toes, exhaling strained whimpers. Bruce began jumping desperately, only being able to tap the metal with his finger tips.

To his right, he saw Jerome hunched over with his hands covering his mouth. His freckled cheeks had flushed red and his chest bucked with stifled sniggers.

Bruce let out a frustrated " _hmph_ " noise and stormed over to a chair at the side of the room. He lifted it up, shuffled back to the bar and placed it underneath. With a smug expression, he made focused eye contact with Jerome and stomped up into the chair. Bruce grasped at the bar and reluctantly took the weight off of his feet. Suddenly, the chair was kicked away from underneath him by Jerome, "Cheater."

Bruce struggled with all the might his arms could muster to bring his chin up to the bar. Everything, from his shoulders to his back screamed in pain and his arms began to shake. He kicked his legs around beneath him, panicking, he knew he would drop at any moment and he had started to fear that he was a little too high to land comfortably.

At that moment, he felt something clasp around his legs and lift him. The strain on his arms loosened slightly and he managed to pull himself up completely. Bruce looked down and saw Jerome smiling up at him, a proud glint in his eye, "One."

Filled with determination, Bruce heaved himself up again and again, gritting his teeth and screwing up his face in gruelling effort.

"Ten!" Jerome announced and Bruce let out a relieved sigh. His arms throbbed numbly as he dangled. Jerome's grip tightened and raised to Bruce's torso as he lowered him down slowly.

As Bruce sat panting, chugging down water like he hadn't drunk in years, he grinned to himself. He felt a rush of accomplishment and, in that moment, he was grateful to have Jerome there.

"Thank you."

"For what?" Jerome wandered the gym floor, tinkering with various pieces of equipment.

"For helping me. I already feel like i've achieved so much."

Jerome paused. "You're welcome." He turned to Bruce, "Do you wanna try something a bit harder?"

"Like what?"

"In the circus we learned how to do all kinds of extravagant tricks and moves with our bodies - but seeing as I don't think you have any trapeze equipment, how about I show you how to hang upside down?"

Bruce beamed and shot up, bouncing, "That’s  _AWESOME_. Can you do like backflips and stuff? Or that cool spinny stuff with the silks? Or the hoops? What did you do?!"

Jerome laughed heartily, _he adored the attention he really did_ , "I was a snake trainer, but I dabbled in some basic acrobatics in my spare time." He gloated.

Bruce's mouth hung wide open, his eyes popping out of his skull and a squeaking noise came from his throat. "You have got to be the coolest person i've ever met!"

They walked back over to the bar, Bruce exclaiming " _snakes_ " under his breath. Jerome's cheeks started to hurt from how much he was grinning. Now that he thought about it, he really did miss his snake. Perhaps he could go back for it at some point. _No, that's suicide._

"Watch this." Jerome jumped up and grabbed the bar. Effortlessly, he swung his leg over it, letting go with one hand, then he lifted his other leg over, let go with the other and and dropped upside down. He swung back and forth in front of Bruce, who stared in amazement.

"You just need a cape! You'll look like a vampire." Bruce chirped.

"Or a bat." Jerome added. "Right, your turn now."

Bruce scoffed and raised his palms in defeat, "Maybe in the future, but right now i'd rather live without a spinal fracture."

***

By the evening, Bruce and Jerome had the idea to make a fort of blankets and pillows in Bruce's bedroom.

They giggled as they ran through the hallways, dragging as many blankets, pillows and duvets as they could into Bruce's room and onto his huge bed.

At one point Bruce passed a very exhausted looking Alfred, who just sighed and turned away, probably thinking about all the beds he had to make in the morning.

They closed off all of the curtains around Bruce's bed canopy, creating a cave of pillows inside. Once they had assembled their fort, they sat cuddled into the pillows, surrounded by a plumage of padding. They had plugged Bruce's TV into a socket close to them, placing it on a bedside table which they draped the curtains behind in order to allow it inside the cave. The TV screen lit the cave dimly, only allowing Bruce and Jerome to see each other when a bright scene played. They found a show about ghost hunters that made them laugh at the sheer enthusiasm of the people in it.

 _"I can feel it. It's here... AGH! It just touched me!”_ Someone sounded in the dark room on the screen, everything was tinted green from the night vision cameras. Jerome snorted loudly and and Bruce playfully elbowed him, "Do you think the ghost is having fun messing with them?"

"Maybe. Or perhaps they're annoyed that people keep coming into their house and screaming all the time." Jerome wiggled his toes in the soft blankets. He was pretty sure he had never felt more comfortable in his entire life.

A faint pattering noise crept around the two boys and Jerome quickly caught on to what was about to transpire. Bruce, however, was oblivious, transfixed on the screen. Suddenly, the TV screen light was sucked away from the fort, plunging the boys into darkness. Jerome grinned amusedly while Bruce whimpered. After a few moments of Bruce making very concerned noises to Jerome, a hand snuck through the curtains and tugged Bruce's foot.

Bruce squealed and retracted his foot as fast as humanly possible. He fell into a mound of pillows, desperately scrambling away. From behind the curtain, a cackle sounded out and Bruce's face quickly turned from terror to annoyance. "Alfred! That is not funny!"

The butler drew back a curtain, giggling profusely. "I thought i was going to die!" Bruce cried and Jerome smothered his face with a pillow in order to contain an outburst of laughter. Bruce sat with his arms crossed defiantly, unamused. Jerome waited for Bruce to do _the annoyed noise_.

"Hmph."

 _There it is_.

"I brought you boys some hot chocolate, but if you're not interested I could always-"

"Wait!" Bruce retorted, grabbing onto Alfred's arm. "We want the hot chocolate."

The two boys thanked Alfred, who told them not to stay up too late, and replugged the TV.

"This is kinda like a sleepover." Bruce commented, taking a sip of his hot chocolate and simpering.

Jerome hummed into his drink and replied "Never had one."

Bruce's eyebrows raised substantially, "Really?" Jerome nodded. "Never?" Bruce asked, and Jerome nodded again.

"I was never exactly the most, how should I put this..." Jerome thought to himself, "liked."

The younger boy seemed shocked. _How could people not like Jerome?_ "I would have thought you had lots of friends."

Jerome looked at Bruce, the screen casting changing blue and white light onto his face. _Those eyes,_ Jerome thought, _they always seemed to look right through him._

The older boy shook his head and knitted his eyebrows together. "Why do you think that?"

Bruce shrugged, placing his drink on the bedside table. "I guess you're just funny and nice to be around. I don't know," Bruce fidgeted, "I mean- I know we've only known each other for like a week but... I feel comfortable around you."

The older boy stared at Bruce for a moment, drinking in the small curve on his lips, the brightness of his eyes and most prominently, his naivety. _His innocence_. Jerome thought about how Bruce would react if he only knew, if he ever knew. _He can never know.  
_

"Can I tell you a secret?" Bruce's voice seemed different, frail. He stared at his hands.

"Of course." Jerome replied, softening his tone to match Bruce's. Slightly worried, he wondered just what he was getting into - was this kid going to get too close to Jerome? As he had learned, he can't get too close to anyone. They only end up getting hurt. _Usually by Jerome_.

Bruce swallowed, and inhaled shakily. "I know that soon I have to go back to school, and i'll have to face those..." Bruce clenched his fists but stayed calm, "those idiots. And yes, I wanted to get stronger so that I could face them but," Bruce paused to take a breath after talking too fast, "but they're not who i'm really after."

Jerome locked eyes with Bruce, who was consumed by determination. Beads of sweat began forming on his forehead and his lips were pursed into a firm line. "I want to find the man who killed my parents," Bruce stated, "and I want to kill him."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this new chapter! It's late, I don't have much to say, but hey here you go. And also, nearly 1200 hits! This is so great! Thank you all so much for the lovely feedback it really makes my day.

"You don't want to do that, you don't." _He's too young, he can't become like Jerome - fucked in the head... nightmares of bloody hands and tortured screams_.

"What if I do. I've thought about it a lot, in fact the thought never seems to escape me. I feel like I need to bring justice, for my parents." Bruce hunched into a pillow that he hugged to his stomach.

"Even if it was justified, even if the guy deserved it, you don't want that weighing on your conscience. You're so young, who knows how it might change you." Jerome pushed thoughts of himself away, this was no time to doubt his own actions.

"How should you know? It's not like you've killed anyone." Bruce locked his eyes onto Jerome, but the older teen turned away, fearing the gaze of _those eyes_.

"No. I haven't." Jerome choked out, a bitterness gathering in his throat.

***

Jerome woke up with Bruce's legs draped over his stomach, and a hand playing with his hair.

"You look angry when you sleep." A weak voice broke the silence.

"And you are getting way too comfortable around me." Jerome sat up and brushed Bruce's legs off of himself.

"Is there a problem with that?" Bruce queried. His hair was sticking up at odd angles and there was the imprint of a pillow crease on the side of his face. _Cute_.

"No." _Yes_. "I just find it interesting how much you've changed since I first met you."

"You love the attention." Bruce gave Jerome a toothy smile. The older teen just gave a joking glare. _This kid had him figured out._

Bruce opened the curtains and Jerome hissed at the overwhelming brightness that flooded the room. "Get up! I wanna go out today."

"Out to where?" Jerome groaned.

"I don't know, we'll get you some clothes or something."

***

"How about this one?" Bruce held up a light blue button up shirt.

"Looks just like the other four shirts you picked up." Jerome eyed the pile of light blue button ups draped over Alfred's forearm. He shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling out of place in the fancy shop. Everything was carved in ebony wood and decorated with gold; extravagant chandeliers and all.

Bruce walked past a display of turtle necks almost identical to the black one he wore and let out an interested "ooo".

"Nope." Jerome crossed his arms and gave the display a disgusted glare. "Absolutely not."

Bruce let out a defeated groan. "Fine. What _do_ you want?"

Jerome spun on the spot, humming. He skipped over to a dark, blood red shirt and black blazer. Grinning, he swivelled to Bruce and pointed at it like a child demanding what toy they wanted.

Alfred smiled and Bruce gave a look as if to say "not bad."

"Good! Glad that's settled." Jerome sauntered up to Alfred and stretched his grin wide and toothy, "I'll take ten."

Alfred turned to a shop assistant and began to say "We'll take ten of the-"

"Whoah whoah! I was just joking Jeeves, one will do suffice." Jerome laughed nervously and shook his hands around. The shop assistant smiled politely and stepped back, whereas Alfred floundered between the two of them, trying to figure out whether or not he should say something.

The awkwardness bit into Jerome and he quickly sputtered out - "Can we get something to eat in a bit?" He patted his stomach, "I’m starving!"

***

  
They sat in a burger joint surrounded by paper bags. Alfred was ordering food and Bruce and Jerome sat in the curved sofa seats, fiddling with the condiments. The loud chatter of people and the clattering from the kitchen filled the air alongside the thick aroma of grease. Bruce looked foreign in his turtleneck and perfect posture.

"Let me guess," Jerome swivelled his body to face Bruce, "you've never been here before?"

Bruce shook his head and observed a family in an opposite booth that were screeching with laughter as two young siblings chased after each other around the table. "I like it - it's lively."

"Hm that's a polite way of saying rowdy." Jerome chuckled and squealed in excitement as Alfred handed him a large milkshake.

Bruce nodded his head side to side, kicking his feet out and humming contently, something from across the diner caught his attention. He waved politely and Jerome turned his head to see who he had seen- only to make immediate and direct eye contact with the cop that was investigating the Wayne murder. _Oh no_.

He stalked towards their table, that unamused look etched into his face still poignant even as he flashed Bruce a small smile. Jerome fidgeted in his seat, becoming more anxious with every stride the cop approached them with.

"Bruce!" The cop greeted and perched onto the edge of the booth's sofa. The younger boy bowed his head slightly, "Gordon."

"How convenient that I found you here, I have good news." The cop had darkness that lingered around his eyes and deep wrinkles in his forehead from contemplative frowning. _Troubled man_ , Jerome deduced. "We have a lead on the identity of the mugger."

Bruce's eyes inflated. He turned to Jerome, a hint of excitement present in his expression. Jerome began to feel worried again, _this fucking kid_. He knitted his eyebrows together and frowned at the younger boy, hoping his disapproving eyes would relay his message.

"We have a witness that says they saw a man matching his description about half an hour before the..." he chose his words carefully, "incident. We're seeing what we can find from it." Gordon's voice seemed to drone on in the distance for Jerome, because all he could think about was keeping Bruce's mind on track and, perhaps more importantly, his own facade from cracking.

"Thank you, Gordon. Please inform me of anything you find." Bruce replied politely. "Alfred, do you know where I could use the restroom in here?"

Jerome panicked silently.

"Over here, master Bruce." The butler and the younger boy left Gordon with Jerome, who wanted to crawl under the table and run out of the diner.

After a few moments of excruciating, palpable silence, Gordon spoke up. "So... you two are friends now?"

Jerome did his best to nod and act in the most " _normal_ " way possible, "I suppose so, yes."

"How did that happen?" Gordon laughed, amused at the concept of Bruce picking up Jerome like a stray cat from the street, perhaps. Jerome swallowed a mouthful of milkshake, trying not to choke under the pressure of the cop's judging gaze.

"Um, well... he offered me a place to stay and we ended up getting along." The red-haired boy smiled innocently.

A pause elapsed where Gordon ran over Jerome's statements in his head, trying to see if all the puzzle pieces of his story fit together. "Oh how nice of him. If you don't mind me asking," _Jerome did mind, in fact_ , "why were you in need of a place to stay?" The cop smiled with his lips but never his eyes - they stayed cold, calculated.

Jerome bit his tongue, this cop was starting to piss him off and he wasn't sure how much longer of his questioning he could take before he broke character and replaced his eyeball with the salt shaker. "Family problems." He spat out, praying that he would get the message that he didn't want to talk about it.

"Ah, I see." Gordon pulled a phone from his pocket and tapped out a message. Jerome sat quietly, eyes trained on where Bruce walked off to, waiting. "You hear about what happened down at the circus last week?" Gordon's hoarse voice asked.

Jerome felt his whole body seize under a sudden solidity head to toe. His chest tightened and the collar of his shirt seemed to close against his throat tighter and tighter. "Y-yes." _Shit_. He couldn't falter, this was the worst time he could possibly panic. "Horrible stuff." He stirred the last quarter of his shake, his appetite thinning into nausea.

Gordon hummed, lounging back into the leather seat. He observed Jerome carefully, a hint of cynicism in his eyes. "Strange, you know, the caravan that she was found in had a bed that seemed to belong to someone she had lived with." Jerome felt sick. "I assumed it was her missing boyfriend's, but one of the circus performers reported that she had a son who is in fact also missing."

The weight of the silence that fell between the two of them was enough to drown out the noises of the diner into a fuzzy white noise. Jerome's palms began to gather sweat. _He had gotten too comfortable, it was foolish to assume that no one would report him missing_. "Oh really?" He swallowed dryly.

_He should've dyed his hair._

"They said that he was mid teens," Gordon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "average height, slim build..." There was a patronising tone to his voice that made Jerome's hair stand on end.

"... bright orange hair."

Gordon's eyes shifted to Jerome's hair.

_Of course. The hair._

"What did I miss?" Bruce's cheery voice carried a wave of relief through Jerome, but it was not enough to calm his nerves completely as long as Gordon's haze pierced into Jerome.

"I was just explaining to Jerome here how strange it is that he fits the exact description of the missing son of Lila Valeska, the snake dancer that was found dead last week." Gordon flashed a sarcastic smile to Alfred, expecting such news to cause controversy and outrage no doubt.

Alfred looked at Jerome's hunched shoulders, shaky hands and vacant expression, then at Gordon. "Oh well yes of course, Jerome here ran away under understandable circumstances wouldn't you say so? I do apologise if his whereabouts are being worried over, I had no idea he was under the label of missing person."

A small smile graced Jerome's lips, he didn't want to think where he would be without that butler.

Gordon was completely taken aback. He bolted upright in his seat, a dumbfounded look glazing his face. Jerome couldn't help but feel a certain gratification at seeing his plan backfire. "You're... I knew it. You are the son."

Jerome chewed his lip and nodded.

"I have to ask, do you know who..."

"Owen Lloyd." The teen cut in. "It was Owen Lloyd." _So get off my case,_ he wanted to say.

***

Jerome huffed, "I want my snake."

Bruce peered over the top of his book, beady eyes squinting. "And where exactly would you put said snake?"

The older boy stretched his long legs out as he stood from his cross-legged position. He walked along the leather sofa chair like a bored child, spreading his arms out for balance. "Anywhere. She's not picky."

Bruce eyed Jerome's bare feet on the sofa as they creased the brown leather; Jerome noticed and wiggled his toes. "You have got to start having a little fun Bruce. What are you reading anyway? Manual for dinner etiquette? How to choose the best tie for your blazer? Fanciest yachts for sale? Turtlenecks 101?"

The younger boy slapped the pages of his thick book closed with a ' _thwack_ ' that echoed through the library. He stood rigidly and placed the book back on the shelf.

"Come on Bruce, where's that fire - that spark I know you've got in you." Jerome called from atop the armchair. "If you want to be intimidating in the slightest you have to be unpredictable." Jerome jumped onto the coffee table, which wiggled precariously, grinning wide and conducting his arms like a magician, "You have to be spontaneous!"

"I can be spontaneous!" Bruce defended, his voice flying into the pitch of a whining chipmunk. He appeared to take notice of his squeaky tone and cleared his throat, "I mean, how about we get your snake? Right now."

Jerome smirked, traipsing his way over to Bruce, hands clasped behind his back. He leaned down and let his voice stoop low as he stared at Bruce's pouting face, "That's more like it."

They snuck past Alfred, giggling and shushing each other, until they reached the front door. Bruce gulped and turned the handle of the massive wooden door. The cool evening air drifted inside and made Bruce shiver.

"Going somewhere boys?" Alfred stood behind them, arms behind his back and brow raised.

"Alfred! We uh. I just thought-" Bruce stuttered sheepishly and the older teen rolled his eyes. He draped his arm over Bruce, causing him to flinch and screw his face up.

"Me and Brucie here felt in need of some night air. We thought we would just walk around the block a few times." Jerome tightened his grip on Bruce's shoulder, clenching his teeth into a forced smile.

"Right. Yes. I feel very faint. Need some air." The younger boy choked.

Alfred was not buying one bit of their act, but sighed and walked off anyway. He mumbled a plead to stay safe on his way out.

"How far is it? Also, ' _Brucie_ '?" Bruce whispered, fearing that Alfred would pounce on them again. The two boys stood awkwardly on the front step of the manor, the night's shade casting over them. Within the next hour it was going to get a whole lot darker, and Bruce was beginning to regret his display of false confidence. And Jerome dreaded to think what would happen if the others at the circus saw him. _This was such a bad idea- but hey, he couldn't deny the idea was rather thrilling._

"East side, over the bridge. And yeah, it's cute okay." Jerome began walking, twisting backwards to face Bruce who stood hesitantly.

"Oh." He rubbed his neck. "That's quite far."

Jerome shrugged, "Ehh, thirty minute walk, tops." He got to the decorative water fountain in the middle of the manor's entrance before twigging that Bruce was not moving. He stopped, then smirked. "You're not thinking of backing out now, are you?" His voice was playful, but taunting.

Bruce frowned, "No." He took a few long, stiff strides, "We’re going to get that snake."

The ginger teen tipped his crown, looking up at Bruce through his lashes. "Attaboy."

The monumental black gates spread open, shrieking hinges grinding to a half before closing once again like a mechanical Venus flytrap.

Jerome skipped merrily into the streets of Gotham with Bruce plodding along behind, his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched up to his ears. Bruce asked if Jerome knew where he was going, to which the older teen examined the terrain before him, nodding hesitantly. His knowledge of Gotham streets was incredibly basic, but he was sure that if he could just make it to certain landmarks all would be fine.

The street lamps had turned on and the cement gleamed with watery lights, but the shadows had grown darker. In the distance, the hum of cars and trains rattled from all sides. Drunk girls screeched, tough men yelled, and faint collisions from doors and bins sounded out rhythmically.

On every street they walked, Jerome studied the shops, houses, street names, signs. He occasionally stopped in the middle of the pavement, just drinking in the surroundings, before saying to himself "yes this one" or when faced with several options, "remember remember come on". Sometimes, he would stride down streets, only to turn around and walk straight back out again. Bruce followed his every step, trotting behind like a loyal dog.

The two of them agreed not to go near any alleyways after Bruce had begun to feel nauseous about the darkening, winding streets. Jerome saw the anxiety this conjured in the boy, and felt bad for dragging him out. _Bruce could have said no, but he was a stubborn little shit that never backed down from a challenge._ Jerome puffed his chest out and swore that as long as Jerome was by Bruce's side, no one could hurt him.

Eventually, they reached Gotham bridge. Jerome leaned over, remembering where he lobbed the knife and chuckling at his own outlandishness. Bruce, however, was struggling to see over the barrier. Jerome lifted him up slightly, to which Bruce said something about the water being pretty.

As they grew closer and closer to the circus, Jerome began to feel nauseous himself. He just had to get in, get the snake and get out - as long as no one saw him, there would be no problems. Once Bruce caught a glimpse of the circus, his mouth dropped open. Illustrated in greys and blues from the moonlight's cast, the humongous tent loomed above them. The trampled, muddy walkways were strewn with litter but otherwise desolate. The whole place seemed eerily empty.

They walked around the circus tents until they reached the back where the performers stayed. Jerome put his finger to his lips and Bruce nodded fervently. Carefully, the older teen climbed over a rickety fence that lead into the caravan site. Bruce followed, struggling slightly but refusing to let Jerome help him.

The lights were off, thankfully, and Jerome's caravan remained as it was before, only the door was taped shut in police tape. Jerome gulped, saliva collecting in his jowls. _Pull yourself together_ , he thought. He inhaled shakily, flashes of his mother, the knife and the blood looped over and over and his head. _The blood_. It was right there, the caravan was _right there._

_"Where the fuck did he go, Lila?" A gruff voice boomed from inside the caravan. Jerome held his breath, praying that Owen wouldn't come out and see him as he crawled up against the side of the metal. A few tears escaped his eyes as he held his jaw, aching and raw after the blows he received. "If he disrespects me like that again i'm gonna kill him, I will, i'll kill him."_

Just as Jerome felt that he could have thrown up, he felt a small hand wrap around his arm. To his side, he saw the sincere eyes of Bruce. "Don't look at it."

They found Jerome's snake in her small enclosure; he had always asked to get her a bigger one. Upon opening the cage, the snake rushed out and into Jerome's hands. It was about the length of Jerome's arm and quite slim. It was dark, almost black, and had small green diamond-like patterns from her head to her tail in a long stripe. The teen was grinning harder than Bruce had ever seen him grin before. "Has anyone been feeding you?" He babbled quietly to the snake as it twisted around his arm.

Bruce allowed himself a smile at Jerome's joy, but was still incredibly wary of the snake that was now traveling across Jerome's shoulders and descending down his other arm. "Bruce, meet Iris. She is really docile, so don't worry, she won't attack you. Unless I asked her to."

The younger boy laughed nervously. He fidgeted, and eyed the caravans around the them, anxious that if they stayed any longer someone would notice. Jerome agreed, and they made their way back to the fence.

"Jerome?" A voice called out from behind them.  
  
_Shit_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY SORRY. I know it's been an eternity since my last chapter but HEY i am not giving up i swear. I have just completed most of my coursework for deadlines and now i have to revise for exams in the next few months so you'll have to bear with me. But other than that thank you for reading!

_This was such a bad idea_. Jerome's shoulders rose up to his ears, he felt every muscle solidify and clench.

"I didn't think you'd show your face around here again." The voice was gruff, it held a certain threat to it that made Bruce's stomach twist. It belonged to a tall, dark-skinned man in a white vest. _Or, well, it probably began white._ Fists balled at his sides, the man breathed like a bear, his blocky shoulders drawing up high and dropping with a growl.

"That was the plan." Jerome ground out through clenched teeth.

The man locked vicious eyes with the teen, lips twitching with a suppressed animosity. "You don't look sad. You should be distraught - with the caravan being right there n' all." He grunted. "With her blood dried into the carpet."

Jerome grabbed Bruce's hand, still scowling at the man. "She had it coming." He choked.

"I suppose so, but you didn't have to go and do that, did you?" The man smiled a twinkly devil smile, a knowing grin that tore a hole into Jerome's chest and sent ice through his core.

Bruce, mouth hanging open and eyes darting madly between the two men, bleated with puzzlement. "What is he talking about Jerome?"

Jerome blanked Bruce completely, the last thing he needed was to feel guilty for the whole thing. "What about the drunken fool who threatened to kill me and Lila right before she died? I ran away from _Owen_ \- that bastard."

He was starting to panic, the clamminess of his hands causing his grip on Bruce's hand to fester and slide.

"He came back last night, said he was innocent." The man turned his head to a caravan behind him, motioning with a chubby finger. "I can get him if you want?" A snarling cackle rumbled through his chest, he turned and began walking to the caravan but within seconds Bruce was yanked into a sprint. 

"You're a dead man Valeska!" The man boomed, his menacing laughter fading as Jerome and Bruce slipped through mud and clambered over fences. Bruce tried his absolute best to keep up with Jerome lest his feet fly away beneath him - like when running on a treadmill that's too fast to match. However, his skinny legs could only carry him back to the bridge before his fingers slid from Jerome's. They veered through a couple streets before Bruce had to ask Jerome to stop because he was convinced he tasted blood at the back of his throat. His feet slapped the concrete hard as he stomped to a stop. Jerome continued for another few yards, his legs beginning to shudder and give way at the knees. He collapsed onto the floor of the Gotham bridge and into a panting mess.

Jerome's hands shook as he retrieved something from beneath his sleeve, its slender body sliding between his fingers. The snake emerged slowly, seemingly unaffected by the chaos of its journey. It seemed to calm Jerome, his breathing slowed and he closed his eyes.

"What's it called?" Bruce swallowed a mouthful of cold air and knelt down to admire Jerome's snake.

"This is Iris." Jerome flashed a watery smile.

Jerome's heart felt heavy holding Iris in his fingers again, she truly was his only friend in the past few years. However, not even his favourite reptile could distract him from the noisy clatter of worries fogging his thoughts in that moment. _They knew, they knew it was him. But did Bruce?_

"I don't know what Owen's playing at but I don't like it - trying to frame me? Hah! Nice try." He prattled, there was a desperation to his voice that he despised. Lying to Bruce felt wrong, it left a bitter taste in his mouth. "He wants me dead I know he does." He mumbled, so quiet that he wasn't sure if he said it out loud at all.

Bruce stood, he looked out at the water, rich blue with metallic reflections. Then, he looked at Jerome, his freckled face glowed pink from the cold. Extending a hand, he offered a small smile, accompanied by a yawn. He always squeaked when he yawned. _Squeaked_.

"Lets go home."

***

Alfred paced the library, his hands fumbling together in contorted gestures as he mumbled to himself. He should've been more cautious. Bruce and Jerome had been out for over two hours, and after a small car ride around the block he could confirm that they were not in the vicinity. It was dark out now, very dark, and Alfred had started to question just how much he should've trusted Jerome.

Just as Alfred was ready to grab his keys for another look, the phone rang. His stomach dropped.

"Alfred!" Bruce's cheery voice sang from the phone and and the butler audibly sighed with relief.

"Where on Earth are you? Why have you been out so long?" As he rambled on he heard Jerome giggle then be shushed by Bruce.

"Um... we're lost."

Alfred could practically hear the fake _please-don't-yell-at-me_ smile through the phone.

"How far from here are you exactly-"

"We don't know - hence the term 'lost'." Jerome heckled, seemingly hijacking the phone from Bruce.

"Okay smartass, what is around you?" Alfred mocked. He heard some rustling followed by Jerome's sarcastic voice.

"A wall... a truck... a young billionaire..."

There was a thump, a crackle and an "Ouch!", followed by Bruce's voice again. "We're by a chemical plant."

Alfred rubbed his eyes, "That's nearly the other side of Gotham, what are doing you over there?"

_Muffled whispering, crackling, rustling._

"Oh and we have a snake. By the way." Jerome blurted.

He sighed, "Okay... hold on."

***

Bruce fiddled with his pencil, staring at his drawing sceptically. The kitchen table was hidden under reams of books and paper, coloured pencils scattered amongst the mix. He analysed the shape on the page, deciding which colour to choose next. To anyone else, the paper showcased an orange blob with legs, but to Bruce it was a masterpiece. He scratched a few black lines onto the blob.

"Mm.. lovely Master Bruce. You like lions?" Alfred peered over his shoulder, a ginormous feather duster in hand.

Bruce scoffed defensively, "It's not a lion." The pencil squeaked and scrubbed the paper. Alfred grimaced, hoping that his barbaric scarification didn't leave imprints on the ebony wood table.

"Ah of course! Yes," Alfred parried, "It's a... camel?"

Bruce glared, blinking painfully slowly. He shook his head.

"Moose?"

With an exasperated huff the young boy snatched up a dark colouring pencil and scribbled another line on the blob with gruelling force. Alfred winced.

"It's a tiger."

Alfred glanced at the drawing, then at Bruce, then back at the drawing. "Ah. I see. Why a tiger?"

Bruce chewed his lip, "Uh, well Jerome told me that no two tigers have the same markings which is very interesting don't you think Alfred?" He drummed his pencil on the wood table and bounced in his seat.

"Mhm." As Alfred fingered through the paper on the table with his free hand, he heard a blunt "Pssst" noise hiss from behind him. His eyes were directed to the doorway, where Jerome was clinging to the frame like a sloth and motioning with a sly finger, _come here_.

When Alfred reached the redhead, he noticed the scheming grin that tugged at his cheeks. Heavy lidded, Jerome eyed the boy scratching away his tiger blob. "I have a proposal. A favour to ask, if you will."

"What are you planning now in that crafty little brain of yours?" Alfred bit, trying to keep his voice down.

"Trust me. It'll be fun."

Fun.

In Bruce's peripheral, Jerome and Alfred whispered conversationally for what seemed like too long to be inconspicuous. If it wasn't for the murmer of the radio then Bruce might have been able to pick up more than a few words. Instead, all he could deduce was that Jerome wanted something, clenching his jaw into a polished smile as he waited for Alfred to respond.

"What do you want from me?"

Jerome thumbed his bottom lip, "Hmm, some duct tape, wooden boards, a guest bedroom, two phones - the old kind, you know like the ones without screens, your delightful assistance and some time alone." He fluttered his eyelashes.

Riddled with questions, Alfred's gaze flittered between the two boys. He thought about what had happened to them a few nights before, and the new snake enclosure in Jerome's room. Then again, they were just boys, what harm could they do?

"What's in it for me?"

Jerome pretended to think deeply, pressing his lips thin and holding his chin. "I'll do the dishes for a week."

"Deal."

***

Bruce wiped his shoes on the mat and Alfred hung his coat on the hook beside the front door. In the Butler's right hand, a chunky Armani bag was strained at the handle.

"I wonder if Jerome is feeling better." Bruce chirped, kicking off his shoes and springing up the stairs two steps at a time. "He's going to flip when he sees that sweater we got him I just know it!"

Alfred let a smile grace his lips, he chuckled. He hung his scarf up, placed the bag on the counter and readied himself to open the fuse box under the staircase.

Upstairs, he heard a patter of Bruce's speeding feet. _How many times had he told him not to run in the house?_ Alfred listened, and listened, until he heard Jerome's voice call out to Bruce. A moment of silence, then a slam followed by Jerome shouting "Now!"

And with that, Alfred flipped the power switch.

He heard Bruce yelp like a puppy with a trodden tail.

***

_Bruce raced through the corridors, heading for Jerome's room. He slid on the wooden floorboards, hanging upright by the wooden doorframe. "Jerome!" He beamed, but the ginger teen was nowhere to be seen. The door swung wide open to reveal a pristine, empty bed._

_"In here!" He heard Jerome holler from a room at the end of the corridor. Strange, he thought, no one ever goes in the guest bedrooms. Nonetheless, he skipped over and peered inside. Once again, empty. Something was odd about the room though, the light was on, but the curtains were closed. He wandered inside, hesitant, he was sure that Jerome's voice came from this room. He approached one of the windows and pushed aside one of the maroon curtains. Beneath his fingers was... wood?_

_All of a sudden, the door slammed shut behind him followed by the scrape of something solid being shoved up against the handle of the door._

"Now!" Jerome bellowed, and not a moment later Bruce's vision disappeared before his eyes. He screeched. The boy blinked his eyes madly, thinking perhaps if he blinked hard enough his vision would be restored. Unfortunately though, he still saw nothing.

"Jerome?!" He squealed. "What is this?!" He tried to find a wall, something to grab onto in order to guide himself around the room.

Bruce jumped out of skin when a loud ringing sound travelled through the darkness. He took small steps in the sound's direction, one arm glued to wall, the other waving in every direction. Bruce scrambled along a wall, closer to the sound until it was right next to him.

_"Hello Bruce. I, as your designated vigilante trainer, have crafted a task for you. Think of it as a trial. As you have probably noticed, there is no light in this room to help you. Oh and the speaker button is at the bottom right of the phone, it'll probably be helpful."_

Bruce thumbed the shapes on the phone until he found what he assumed was the speaker button. Jerome's voice rang out loud and tinny. 

_"I want you to find your way out of that room. I know, seems a bit over the top doesn't it? But, as you should know by now, that's just my style."_

"How do I get out?" 

 _"That's up to you to find out."_ Bruce could hear his mischievous smirk in his voice.

The younger boy relaxed his shoulders, which he hadn't even realised were nearly touching his ears, took a deep breath, and lifted his hands in front of him. He knew he looked as idiotic as he felt, zombie-walking through the bedroom, but he simply had to play along. His eyes had adjusted just enough to allow for a faint blue tone to differenciate some lighter objects like the bedsheets.

Anxiety cursed his every step. Visions of tripping and landing flat on the unforgiving floor plagued his thoughts. He grabbed onto the bed, using it to guide him to a window. With desperate fingers he traced the thin wooden panel blocking the window, tugging at every edge.

_"Let me ask, Brucie, are you scared?"_

"No." Bruce spat through gritted teeth.

_"That sounded pretty shaky to me. In fact, I figured you would be trembling in your designer boots since you seemed pretty damn scared when the lights went off in our pillow fort. Found a way out yet?"_

Bruce grunted and blew air out of his nose. "Nope. Having fun Jerome?" He bit.

 _"Oh yes! Very much. But I really am curious, what are you scared of?"_ Outside the door, Jerome had his ear to the door, leaning nonchalantly and grinning into the phone. _"Spiders? Clowns? Snakes? Bullies?"_

Bruce paused.

 _"Is that it? Those dribbling cretins at your school?"_ He scoffed.

"I am not scared of them. They irritate me, there's a difference." Bruce crossed his arms. "Why do I have to open up to you anyway?"

_"Because you want to know how I got like I am. I am fearless because I've been afraid. If you want to stand up to those bullies without hesitation, you have to realise that nothing and no one can get in your way. Now, i'll ask one more time, what scares you?"_

The boy sat down against the wall, giving up on finding a way out. He released a shaky breath.

"I'm scared... I'm scared of..."

He paused. 

"I'm scared of failing my parents."

He gulped. 

"I'm scared of not living up to the family name."

There was a scrape and a thump, and his eyes were suddenly overwhelmed with light. He saw the silhouette of Jerome standing in the doorway and he felt his pulse soften. He scrambled to his feet and hugged Jerome with all his might.

"Well done. You've completed my final task." He cooed.

"Final?" Bruce let go of Jerome, studying his green eyes, looking for his signature playful grin, his witty sarcasm, anything to tell Bruce that he was lying; there was nothing but pride staring back at him.

"You go back to school tomorrow right?" Jerome's eyebrows knitted together, did he get something wrong?

Bruce was overcome with a weight that depressed him into a hunch. He stared at the floor. "Oh... right. Yeah."

"Hey," Jerome tipped Bruce's chin up, "Let's go make some hot chocolate."

Bruce's smile made Jerome's chest tighten, and he began to wonder what he would do without the little brat.

 

"Was there even a way out of that room?"

"Nope."

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Yeaaaah i've just kind if accepted that these aren't exactly weekly updates anymore but i still have more story i want to tell so thank you soo much to everyone reading it really means a lot to me, especially those who leave such lovely comments! Oh and i just thought i should put somewhere that these chapters are of course not written perfectly and i apologise for errors throughout. With that said, enjoy!

They were staring at him.

No one said anything.

Perhaps they were scared of how he would respond, or maybe they just never spoke to him in the first place. His teachers gave him soft smiles and sad eyes. They didn't ask him questions in class - which Bruce greatly appreciated. Whilst reading a line of text for the third time, Bruce realised he couldn't remember a single word. The board at the front of the classroom projected big block letters, he stared, and stared, but they passed straight through his brain like they weren't even there at all.

He sat alone at lunch inside a toilet cubicle. He wasn't hungry. Soon, he conjured fantasies of Alfred and Jerome rolling up to school in the Rolls Royce and whisking him away, away from the school, away from the people, _forever..._

_"We're here for Mr. Wayne." Alfred says, striding into reception in his billowing overcoat with the strut of the most powerful man on earth._

_"Bruce? Why do you need him?" Says that one secretary Bruce hates, (she wouldn't let him go home when he was sick during English Literature.)_

_"He's needed at Wayne Enterprises, it's very important."_

_"I'm afraid you can't-"_

_"I'll have you know that Wayne Enterprises provides 60% of economic funding for this school and Master Bruce, being the head of the company, could withdraw every cent and have you fired with the click of his fingers." The butler smiles. Behind him, smirking, is Jerome, his dark lashes pulled low over his snake-like eyes. He raises the side of his top lip in disgust at the kids walking by, reserving a particularly dirty snarl for Tommy Elliot._

Unfortunately, the bell rang and there was no purring engine, no honking horns, no suave butler and no Jerome.

One more lesson until the end of school - and he had Biology. Bruce had been dreading Biology the most out of his timetable for the day, and it had nothing to do with the lesson itself. All day he had avoided trouble, lurked in the shadows, getting lost in crowds and staying away from people he knew, but eventually he knew that he had to face him...

Tommy was spread out in his seat front row, his legs stretched with his clunky feet anchored to the floor each side of his desk. He was so slouched that the small of his back was inches from slipping off the seat, (the idea of which amused Bruce for a breif moment); it was a moment that passed quickly, however, as Bruce's eyes had travelled to Tommy's face. They locked eyes for only a second, yet it was long enough to see the disgust broil in his eyes. His lip twitched, suppressing a smile. Perhaps even Tommy knew that it was not a good time to continue his notorious belittling of the young Wayne.

Bruce scuttled to his seat, a frown dragging his face to the floor. The teacher's sharp voice pierced his ears as she scolded the class, cutting through the hubbub of conversation. Bruce tried to ignore it and focus on his work silently, taking notes from the textbook seven pages ahead of the rest of the class, however this teacher's voice was particularly grating.

"Out of white and red blood cells, which ones produce antibodies? Thomas? Seeing as you're so set on holding your own discussion with Brandon, how about you share your wisdom with the class?"

"Uh... dunno miss."

"Anyone want to help Tommy?" She scanned the room.

Bruce knew the answer, it was easy. _Tommy was just an idiot_. He fidgeted and her eyes snapped onto him, her face softening into a smile. "Bruce?" Her tone lowered in volume, the stern kick to her words she directed at Tommy had vanished. Although, somehow the squeaky-clean, feathery approach she took while speaking to him felt insultingly patronising to Bruce.

Nausea brewed in his stomach. _He should've eaten._

"White. White blood cells." He replied dryly, "Red blood cells carry oxygen."

The silence that draped over the room was palpable. He heard someone murmur something like: "Bruce is back?" Followed by, "Is he okay now?" Someone on the other side of the room stated that "apparently" he hadn't spoken all day.

The teacher continued her lesson, directing annoyed glances at Tommy and his friends on a regular basis - _nothing new there._ They would frequently resort to crude jokes behind her back, Brandon giggling profusely at everything Tommy spewed from his permanently dumb-looking face.

By some strange miracle though, Tommy only so much as shot a glance at Bruce while he and his buddies chortled at one of his jokes. It was probably something stupid like: "I bet she got that dress from the dollar store."

Brandon snorted.

Bruce was just finishing his notes on the immune system when the bell rang. People sprang from their seats before the it had even finished screeching and were bounding towards the door. The teacher's voice trailed off in the chatter that gathered volume as people packed away. Bruce, however, was carefully sliding his textbook and pencil case in the appropriate bag pockets. He was the last to leave the room and when he stepped out into the corridor he was swept away by a current of stomping teenagers, many of whom were bigger than him and knocked his head with their elbows.

At least he could walk out of the school and know that Alfred would be there to take him home.

Except, Bruce couldn't see his car outside the school.

The number of students flooding out of the doors had dwindled down to a few per minute, and Bruce was beginning to feel anxious. Alfred was never late. That's when he heard the heavy footing of three boys clunking up behind him.

"So the snob returns." Tommy's brattish voice hit Bruce like a brick wall. "I missed you, I really did. I hated turning around and not seeing your blank little face." He knew that this was his chance, his opportunity to be brave and face his fears, just like Jerome taught him.

"I heard your family recently experienced a pretty big loss am I right? Of course i'm right it's all over the news." He groaned.

_What would Jerome do?_

"Don't." It was all that came out of Bruce's mouth, bitten back to prevent himself from saying something he would regret.

"Hey man I don't think you should-"

"Shut up Mickey. I'm curious," He circled around Bruce to face him, "With your old man gone, are you in charge of Wayne Enterprises?"

Fists clenching tight, Bruce felt sweat collect across his skin. _What would Jerome think? What would he say?_

"Because if that's the case," he sniggered, "you might as well say goodbye to your fortune. Who knows how many ways you could fuck up a friendship, let alone an enterprise.”

"Stop." Bruce growled, closed in by Tommy and his goons from all sides. He felt tears prick in his eyes but blinked them away, not daring to shed one, not in front of them.

_"A few teenage beef-heads wouldn't stand a chance against me." Jerome boasted._

Tommy stepped even closer to Bruce, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Your Butler not here to save you? That's a first."

Biting his lip, Bruce clenched his eyes tight, a tear sliding down his cheek. He cursed at himself; he said he wanted to stand up to the bullies, control them, and all he had done was freeze and cry. No wonder he was such an easy target.

Brandon giggled under his breath to Mickey, "He's crying!"

"Funny how the same night that your folks died so did that woman at the circus. I hear they've got an opening for freakshows-"

Before Bruce even knew it himself, his fist was connecting with Tommy's cheekbone. He had heard enough of Tommy's senseless dribbles. A rush of adrenaline shot through him head to toe, however, it quickly wore off as he felt the explosive pain from the impact zip into his hand. His knuckles felt bruised down to the bone.

Tommy growled, cradling the side of his face. Bruce saw redness lining his eyes and flushing his nose. Swearing, Tommy barked at Brandon and Mickey: "Grab him!"

Bruce felt meaty arms snake under his armpits and squeeze, locking him onto Brandon's chest. Being taller than Bruce, Brandon leaned back just enough that Bruce's feet hovered off the floor. The young Wayne saw a doubled-over Tommy stumble away from Bruce, giving some space between them to recollect himself. Bruce huffed, struggling to keep hold of the breath that escaped his lungs so suddenly. His hands fumbled with Brandon's arms, fingers desperately trying to find weak spots.

He turned to look at Mickey, who stood back, distancing himself. The smaller boy shone his eyes at Mickey, searching for even a glimmer of mercy.

Meanwhile, heaving and dripping spit from his clenched teeth, Tommy pointed a dirty stub of a finger at Bruce. "You. Should not. Have done. That."

Somewhere in the back of Bruce's mind, he was laughing. He had just punched Tommy Elliot _in the_ _face_. Perhaps Jerome would be proud of him, even if he was about to meet his end by the greasy fists of Brandon and Tommy.  
  
"Y'know, I knew you were mind," Tommy got close enough for Bruce to see the purple blooming on his cheek, "But now I understand that you are _crazy_."

"Oof!" Bruce gasped as Tommy landed a blow in the centre of Bruce's stomach. He curled into himself, folding his knees up and pulling hard again Brandon's grip.  
Tommy unleashed another strike, leaning his whole body into it. He aimed for the exposed side of his torso, right under the ribs. Bruce yelped, a small sob escaping his lips.

Pulling back his shaking fist as far as he could, Tommy clenched Bruce's collar, ready to throw his knuckles at the young boy's face..

 

" _Crazy?_ I would hardly say that. He's more _'confusing'_ or _'annoying'_."

 

Tommy froze.

"You know this guy?" His fist hovered mid-air as he scowled at Bruce's drooping face. Upon his wet, pink cheeks he saw... _a smile?_

"You could say that." Bruce teased, having an entire conversation with his Knight In Shining Gucci,(courtesy of Master Bruce's keen eye for complimentary navy), just through their interlocking eyes. That green had never shone so bright with eagerness.

"Who is he?" Tommy spat.

"Oh, no one. The real question here is who are _you?_ Other than someone who likes the sound of their own voice, it seems."

"None of your god damn bus-"

"BORING! Oh my god does this guy ever shut up?" Jerome threw his arms up dramatically, looking at Brandon and Mickey for an answer to his rhetorical quip. He cut them off (of course) before they could utter a confused reply, "Never spend precious time monologuing before you hurt someone - so much opportunity for them to escape when you could be pounding them senseless. Unless you're me, in which case rabble on! I'm flattered you're taking the time to listen to my speech because, as I can see, _you've let your guard down._ "

"Wha- _ **ACK!**_ "

Bruce ferociously kicked Tommy in the stomach, causing Brandon's grip to clench down on his shoulders like a vice. Hissing, Bruce frantically jabbed his elbows into Brandon's gut. Jerome slid up behind them, sneaking an arm around Brandon's throat and squeezing - just enough to startle him. The stoic bully seized his grip on Bruce immediately.

"Good idea." Jerome growled, huskier than Bruce had ever heard his tone before.

Knocking his knees on the cement floor, Bruce crumpled like a rag-doll. He palmed the ground, taking a moment to appreciate his connection to the floor again. A few feet im front of him, Tommy was groaning, arms wrapped around his sides, his sweaty forehead resting on the cement and his butt in the air. When Bruce heard the clunking of someone stumbling away as fast as they could, he figured that Jerome had done a brilliant job of scaring Brandon into abandoning his wailing leader.

Jerome turned to Mickey, who had been watching the whole ordeal. Wide eyed and visibly sweating, Mickey flung his hands up, _please don't hurt me,_ and backed away into a sprint. Jerome scoffed.

"You okay there bud?" The older boy squatted down to Bruce's level.

Bruce replied with a slight chuckle that was quickly interrupted by a hiss of pain that bit into his ribs. He sighed, shoulders slouching as he closed his eyes for a moment - trying to think about how he felt. In all honesty, he couldn't tell.

He grabbed onto Jerome's arm and stood up, instinctively brushing the dirt from his black trousers, (that were always baggy no matter what size he got). Jerome helped Bruce as he hobbled onto the street adjacent to the school.

"Sorry I didn't step in sooner, though i'd give you a chance - to be your own hero." Jerome's voice had lost its theatrics, his conversational speech bearing an honest tone.

"I got pummelled. I would hardly call that being a hero." Bruce sulked.

"Ah, but you punched Tommy in the face."

"I did didn't I. Hm."

As they rounded a corner, Bruce shook his head and giggled. "Of course."

From the side of the glistening black Rolls Royce parked on the roadside, Alfred extended a gentle wave accompanied by a small smile. Bruce pouted as he slid onto the leather backseat, stating that he had been waiting for them to show. To which Alfred retorted: "Sorry Master Bruce, it was Jerome's idea."

"Oh shut up you old kook." Jerome whined.

"I'm hardly middle-aged-"

"Hardly?"

Bruce's laughter cut through their flapping, "I see you two have become friends."

"Was that a joke, Master Bruce?" Alfred swivelled his body to see the two boys sat hip-to-hip, fighting giggles as they exchanged glances. Alfred waited a few moments to ponder exactly how he would deliver his next words, eventually deciding on: "On another note, it has come to my attention that you are unhappy at your school, Master Bruce." Bruce nodded, jokily cradling his stomach in pain. "After a few chats with Lucius, you remember Lucius right? Mr. Fox? Well anyway, we were talking about your current predicament, as well as Jerome's. Together, we have decided that you two can be homeschooled until further arrangements can be made."

There was a beat of stunned silence where Bruce gaped between Alfred and Jerome, who was grinning, waiting, waiting for Bruce to say something.

"I... really? Wait, starting when?"

"Well after today's, how should i put this, _shitshow_ , I would say tomorrow." Alfred stated and Bruce gasped with excitement, sitting on his hands as his mouth stretched open even wider.

The butler clicked on the radio as they pulled out from the curb and immediately Jerome started to bob side to side in his seat. Bruce joined, fighting to keep a straight face. They swayed to whichever generic pop song was playing, Bruce could see Alfred eyes roll in the rearview mirror.

They were about half way home when the songs ended and a woman started talking: **"Our main story today here on Gotham Daily is the arrest of Owen Lloyd under accounts of assaulting three civilians while under the influence of alcohol."**

Jerome leaned forward in hisseat, his heart pumping blood loud in his ears.

**"Lloyd is also the primary suspect for the murder of Lila Valeska, the circus performer who was found strangled and stabbed to death in her trailer last month."**

The car went silent, Alfred deciding that Jerome had heard enough and turned the radio off. Jerome bit his lip and averted his gaze to outside the window. However, he wasn't sure if it was because he wanted to cover the fact he was smiling or that he was on the verge of tears. Tears which he felt would be appropriate. _Because that's what people do right?_ They cry about the death of their parents. 

Jerome felt a certain emptiness fill him from his toes up.

"They got him." He murmured. This was a good thing, it was a great thing. They would steer off his trail and he could move on with that monstrosity behind bars.

Bruce placed a warm hand over Jerome's, curling his fingertips underneath and squeezing.

_But was Owen really the monster?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! So this chapter is the last of these two lovely boys at this current age. The next chapter will have a bit of a time jump in order to age them up - hopefully you guys are okay with that because obviously they're very young here. However, i wanted them to have a strong bond from early in their lives (also baby bruce is just adorable).


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THREE YEARS LATER...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. 
> 
> Yeah okay i know that was a pretty long hiatus but i have an excuse i swear. I've finished exams now... thank god. Anyway, i think i wrote this all in one night at like 2 in the morning so idek if it makes sense but i have to post SOMETHING. It's not very long but hey it is kind of a filler chapter so you can get used to the idea of them being a bit older. I wanted this to be a (somewhat) lighthearted chapter seeing as i'm about to drop some major shit in the next chapter - which i need to start writing like now holy shit.
> 
> PS: now bruce is 15 and jerome is 17 (i went back and changed him to being 14 in the previous chapters SORRY but the idea of him being 18 scared me cuz age difference AH)

"Ew! Get off me you sweatball go shower!"

"Gimme a hug first!"

"Nope. No way."

"C'mon, one hug."

Jerome let out a maniacal laugh as he zoomed towards Bruce with open arms. The teenage Wayne clasped his science textbook to his chest and clambered over the armchair Alfred had just arranged the plum pillows on, squashing them and leaving foot-shaped craters.

A golden cast of morning sunlight divided the manor into quarters of shade and light. Bruce dipped between rays, a hand across his brow to shield his eyes. Jerome caught Bruce by the waist and yanked him to his chest. Flapping, stomping and protesting with futile attempts to unlock Jerome's squeezing hug, Bruce moaned: "Agh! Thanks! Now i'll smell like sweaty armpit for the rest of the day."

Jerome cradled Bruce, who had given up and gone limp, side to side, nuzzling his chin into the crook of his neck - like a child squeezing their favourite cuddly toy. "I had to train all by my lonesome today, not even a pouty lipped butler to insult my form. Where is ol' Jeeves anyway?"

"Mm." Bruce deadpanned, "That sounds sad, hope you enjoyed your rounds against the punching bag. And he's outside, I told him to take the day off seeing as it's so nice outside."

Jerome's face opened up as he admired the brilliant sunlight that bore through the window and bleached the room. "Oh yeah... I suppose it is nice. That why you're teaching yourself today?"

"Yeah i'm just revising biology for a - uh, can you, can you let go of me, thanks - for a test tomorrow."

The older boy sprang with intrigue, straightening out his lean frame. His eyes wandered through Bruce's revision cards splayed out over the library coffee table. "A test huh?"

Bruce nodded.

"Biology?"

Bruce nodded again.

"Need any help? I could quiz you." Jerome crossed his arms, one eyebrow flying up high.

They sat across each other on a sofa, Jerome with his hips wide open, propping his elbow up on his knee as he flicked through cards. He wrinkled his lip and threw a couple behind him. Bruce opened his mouth but was cut off by Jerome clearing his throat and racing into a satirical game show host impression.

"Bruce Wayne! For two thousand dollars can you name the connection between neurones?" He rocked his jaw side to side gaudily.

"Easy, synapse." Bruce preened.

Jerome flung the card over his shoulder and exclaimed: "Ding ding ding! Cooo-rrect! Now, for thirty thousand dollars can you get this next one right. Lets see ladies and gentlemen, what is the name of the first neurone in the reflex arc?"

"Uh... sensory."

Jerome let his response hang in the air for a few seconds, causing Bruce to doubt himself. Then he exploded with congratulatory praise; "Yes! Correctamundo! Genius! Next question! What form does an electrical impulse travel as?"

Bruce bit his lip, "Is it neurotransmitters?"

"Okay smarty pants." Jerome flicked to the next card, then the next, and the next. "These are all boring, lets try some different questions."

Intrigued, Bruce couldn't help but lean closer to Jerome ever so slightly. The older teen raked a firm hand through his still sweaty hair and licked his lips thoughtfully. With an almost scandalous demeanour and husky voice, Jerome stooped his shoulders low to meet his face with Bruce's.

"Who's your little feline friend you keep meeting up with?"

A moment of surprise got stuck in Bruce's throat.

"Selina? She's just a friend I met on the streets." Bruce swallowed hard, he was beginning to feel jittery from Jerome's unabashed tone and closeness.

" _Just_ a friend?" He smirked slightly, but it was blink-and-you'd-miss-it.

"Yeah." The younger boy gulped, "Just a friend."

"So no smooch action?"

"Oh no, god no, no." Bruce shook his head and let out a nervous laugh.

"Really? Not even a little? You're old enough to have a girlfriend so i'm not gonna castrate you or anything." A playful smile toyed with his lips.

Bruce's hands fiddled with the hem of his shirt as he mumbled in broken sentences: "I don't - _like_ \- her. I don't like..."

"You don't like...?" Jerome's grin spread and Bruce could hear it in the way his voice dropped lower.

_I don't like her._

"I just don't see her like that okay? She's just a friend." Bruce met eyes with Jerome and quickly decided that it was a huge mistake.

Dark, yet gleaming, they made something in his stomach turn.

Defensively, he forced himself to cross his arms and point his noise up as he usually would. "Well, what about you? Do you have any secret girlfriends I should know about?"

After a beat of silence, Jerome's mouth started to inflate and his pursed lips wobbled. He erupted with laughter, causing Bruce to flinch. Jerome slapped his thigh and pretended to wipe a tear from under his eye.

"What?" Bruce challenged.

Jerome just stared for a moment and held back another chuckle, instead it came out of his nose as a brash snort.

" _What?!_ " The younger teen pressed, feeling embarrassment pool in his cheeks.

"Nothing." He waved his hand in the air between them, a few chuckles quaking his chest. "I'm gonna take a shower."

Bruce's lip hung open as he traced small sounds of confusion.

"Also," Jerome added, "try to answer that without going red next time. You're a terrible liar."

***

Flecks of water spattered Bruce's face; he wiped it from his cheek with the back of his hand. Jerome chuckled mischievously and slicked his wet hair back from his face. His sweatpants hung from his hips loosely and his plain white shirt was thin and showed the pink of his skin underneath where it had stuck to wet patches. He slung the damp towel on the _mahogany_ _wood_ table and Bruce cringed.

"I don't know why Alfred puts up with you." Bruce said under his breath, returning his attention to his textbook.

"Huh?" Jerome yawned.

"You have no respect for the furniture." The young Wayne begrudgingly grabbed the towel and neatly hung it over the back of a chair.

"I wanna know how you put up with me." Jerome flopped onto the sofa and reclined until he was lying horizontal. He took his shirt between his fingers, lifted it, and dropped it back onto his stomach. The soft cotton landed gently, spreading cool air across his abdomen. From his peripheral, Bruce could see flashes of Jerome's skin and wondered why he didn't just take it off if he was that hot. Then again, he wasn't sure how easy it would be to concentrate around _that_ predicament.

"Well," Bruce reasoned, "although most of the time you're an insufferable, melodramatic git, there's a few moments mixed in there that make it worth it."

Jerome dropped his hand over his chest and feigned getting choked-up. "Brucie! I'm touched."

"Good. Because i'm not saying it again." Bruce slapped his textbook closed, deciding he had done suffice.

A moment of admiration lingered between the two boys as they looked out into the garden. The hedges were bursting with colour, soaked in sunlight. In the middle of the neatly trimmed grass Alfred was lying on a deck chair in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt - _a_ _peculiar_ _sight_. He was probably sleeping under his sunglasses. Jerome jumped onto his bare feet and wandered out to the patio where a table and a few chairs were shaded by a large umbrella.

"Want to sit out here?" He asked softly.

They carried out a chess board to amuse themselves, Jerome was bragging that he would "destroy" Bruce. However, a few minutes into the game Bruce noted that Jerome's moves were unpredictable, reckless and _completely against the rules._ It wasn't until he tried to move his Queen to the entire other side of the board that Bruce realised where Jerome's methods came from.

"Check Mate." Jerome beamed.

"Do you know how to play chess?"

"No."

"Jerome!"

"What?! I lasted this long didn't I?"

Frustrated, Bruce cleared the board. He said that they were going to start again and this time they were going to play by the rules.

"But that's booring!" Jerome whined.

Bruce retorted under his breath, "You're like a baby." Then he added: "It's how it is meant to be played. There are rules for a reason, if there were none then there would be no fair winner."

Jerome chuckled through a smirk. "Look at you being all righteous and lawful." He stretched on the back of the chair, letting out a satisfied "Ahh" when he heard a click.

Eager to get on with the new game, Bruce slapped his white pawn onto a new square.

The ginger teen sucked on his lower lip before picking up a black knight, twirling it in the air for a bit and smacking it down onto a square in the middle of the board.

Bruce exhaled a relinquished sigh.

"You can't do that."

"Who are you? The chess cop? Get off my ass rich boy."

"Shut up you tosser!"

Alfred, who was indeed not asleep, slanted his sunglasses to the tip of his red nose and cleared his throat. The teens shared a goofy apology, Bruce stifling a laugh with his sleeve.

"Where did you get _that one_ from?" Jerome whispered, wide eyed in wonder and repeating Bruce's insult under his breath.

The younger boy wearily glanced at Alfred, and when the coast was clear he leaned over the table and cupped a hand over Jerome's ear. "You know how Alfred gets very annoyed at bad drivers..." Jerome snorted and nodded fervently.

"What did he say that time we got stuck behind a learner driver on the way to last year's Gala?"

"'Sodding Idiot', 'Useless Git', 'Bloody Muppet', 'Plonker', 'Knob Head', 'Incompetent Wanker', I could go on."

A bright laugh shone from Jerome as Bruce struggled to keep a straight face listing Alfred's insults. He rocked back and forth in his chair, his eyes locked shut from his wide-mouthed grin.

***

The light from the TV cast blue onto Bruce's cheeks. He spread his lips into a soft smile, accepting eyes indulging in every secret the poured from Jerome's lips.

He told him, the younger boy, _that twerp, that dork, that dweeb, that brat, that little snot-nosed dark haired pink cheeked skinny spoilt rich kid_ , he told him about how in their old caravan he would listen to the rain drum on the metal. He told him that he would hear his mother, sniffling and groaning, leave the caravan at midnight every night to god knows where and return in a stranger's car the next morning. He told him how he would lie awake, alone, tuning into the clanking of bottles and gruff chatter of the men getting drunk in the next van over. He told him about how he would pretend to be asleep when a man would swing open the door, surveying the inside for his mother. How he would hold his breath as the man would push dirty bowls off the counter.

He told him about the look in Owen's eyes when he took a muddied fist to the side of Jerome's face for the first time.

The shock, the sting, the tears.

The worst part was that Jerome didn't have to share anything - he could have lied like he always would to the others at the carnival, to the people he'd see grocery shopping. This conversation wouldn't be happening if Jerome hadn't gone and gotten lost in his own thoughts again, causing Bruce's pinched eyebrows and frowning lips to recite: "What's wrong?".

Throughout the last few years Jerome had become distanced from his old life, his residence at the manor granted him a new start that at times he felt he didn't deserve. He often wondered why Bruce and Alfred let him stay and how long it would take until they kicked him out. And yet, there he still was.

And anxiety plagued him, however. The thought that one day Bruce's prying eyes will find more than Jerome is prepared to reveal. 

As he continued to speak, it felt like the ghostly reminders of his mother faded, and all he could see in that moment was the curve of Bruce's cheek and the spatter of freckles in his nose only visible if you look for them. The endearing compassion that reached deep in his gaze.

_Get a hold of yourself Jerome. It's like you're a different person around this kid. (If Jerome could even call him a kid anymore, although he always will.)_

Maybe he was. Maybe this was the new, improved Jerome. Jerome Version 2.0, now with extra honesty. 

"Is there something on my face?" Bruce pondered, fluttering innocent eyes.

"Yes," Jerome replied, "it's disgusting."

The younger teen rolled his eyes and looked back at the screen.

"I don't think you can get it off though." Jerome pinched Bruce's cheek. "Yup, looks like it's stuck there."

Bruce swatted Jerome's hand away and groaned. They were watching a movie about... Jerome wasn't really paying attention so he can't remember but he might have recalled Bruce getting somewhat scared by it. Then again, he'd seen Bruce flinch at a particularly aggressive cereal advert before so that wasn't much help. All Jerome remembers is that he found a new mole on Bruce's left arm, right next to the freckles that look like the Lyra Constellation. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha. Sorry.
> 
> I've been insanely busy and you know what you don't care for my excuses so lets just get to the good stuff okay.  
> This chapter was hard to write i'll say that. I know it's kinda short but i really wanted to keep the next scenes for a chapter by itself.

A simple piano ballad weaved through the suits and dresses; there was black, maroon, navy, bedazzled with matching diamond earrings, complementary couples and waiters holding silver platters of glistening gold champagne. Jerome never ceased to be amazed by the upper class. They always seemed to sparkle, as if the brightest and most obnoxiously glittery person in the room was by default the richest and most important. 

The entire room was shrouded in a golden glow, the marbled floors cast reflections of the chandeliers above and the gold pillars that ran down each side of the hall were engraved with fine leaves and vines. Above them, a dome roof stretched so high it made Jerome feel dizzy when he looked up.

Jerome huffed under his breath and brought a gourmet dark chocolate to his lips. From his position against the dessert bar, Jerome could observe the people at the charity gala from a comfortable distance - and eat all of the food. It was perfect.

Bruce was always very comfortable around those older than him, Jerome noted. It seemed logical to him seeing as he was the only friend close to Bruce's age that the young boy had. He would smile politely, bow his head and shake their hand firmly. Somehow, though Jerome could never fathom how, he would greet every couple by name. _"Ah, good evening Mrs. Delaney, Sir Holbrook, Lord Pendleton, Ms. West, Mr. and Mrs. Allison." -_  the whole ordeal seemed so... exhausting.

A stout man, squished into a three-piece suit several sizes too small for him with more chins than Jerome could count from his distance, wobbled over to Bruce. He extended a thick hand to the young boy, sneering a fake smile through yellow teeth.

"Wonderful work you're doing, just splendid." Jerome heard him bellow out in a chesty voice. Bruce flinched so he assumed that the man had unpleasant breath. Yet, through kind eyes Bruce gritted his teeth and squeezed the man's hand.

"Thank you, Sir Chesterfield, the cause is quite close to my heart."

Jerome read Bruce's lips as best he could, his voice was rather reserved and he always seemed to speak more through his eyes - like the way they squeezed shut when he laughed at Jerome's jokes.

Jerome picked up another chocolate.

"Oh of course! Those poor orphans need all the help they can get. I'm sure your parents would be very proud of you." Chesterfield blurted gruffly. Although his words were sincere, something about the way he projected to the surrounding people rather than directing them at Bruce personally made Jerome cringe. Bruce's chest closed up, he nodded and smiled with his lips but not his eyes.

There was a minute where Bruce was left standing by himself in the centre of the room, just looking at the people around him like a lost puppy. Jerome thought he looked tired now, after all he had been standing around talking to people he barely knew for two hours. The older boy sauntered over to him, plastering a goofy smirk with one eyebrow comically wiggling up and down on his face. Bruce giggled and it made something inside Jerome light up.

"Wanna dance?" He swooped his head low to meet Bruce's.

"Really? Does it look like this is the kind of event where we can dance?" Bruce replied in a hushed voice.

"Do I look like the kind of guy who cares about that?" Jerome quipped and Bruce crossed his arms.

"We'd be the only ones."

"So? People could join in!" Jerome beamed, shifting his weight side to side like a restless child. "Come on." He added quietly into Bruce's ear. His fingers found their way between Bruce's arms and he gently pried them apart. Bruce's face dropped to the floor and Jerome saw a warm pink spread from the centre outwards. With a tentative touch, Jerome weaved his fingers between Bruce's. They were stiff at first, then relaxed into his grip. Jerome moved Bruce's hand up to drape over his shoulder, and then placed his own hand against the younger boy's waist.

Jerome stepped out for a moment before closing the distance between them. When their chests bumped Bruce's head shot up with wide eyes. "Jerome-" Bruce tried to pull away.

"Shh. You're so tense, just relax." Bruce breathed deeply, stepped back in and carefully followed Jerome's steps as they began to turn. "You looked like you were going to fall asleep on the next person who came up to you. If you ask Alfred i'm sure he'll let you end it early, just ask for people to donate and we can go home."

Bruce shook his head, "No no it's fine, I still have to say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins, oh and Mr. Pinkman-"

Jerome rolled his eyes and cut in, "Screw em." Bruce looked around hesitantly, people were starting to look at them. Jerome just picked up the speed.

 _Step in, step out, right left right, step in, step out, left right left._ The older boy motioned to Bruce that he should spin around, and after a nervous glance around Bruce slowly spun under Jerome's arm.

A few people started imitating the two boys, champagne glasses in hand. Bruce started to loosen up and let a smile grace his lips at the sight.

"See? Everyone loves dancing." Jerome pulled Bruce tighter to his stomach and twirled him.

Within the crowd, a static figure grabbed Jerome's attention. His eyes focussed to inspect the man who seemed to be staring at the two boys. From his dark, baggy clothes and baseball hat shadowing his face Jerome could tell that this man was out of place, unwelcome even.

A tingling coldness spread through Jerome's fingertips and he noticed that his feet had stopped moving.

"Jerome?"

He heard the words but had no response as he studied the man's face. Underneath the cap he saw a large rough chin covered in uneven stubble. Something felt horrifically familiar about his face, yet Jerome refused to believe the nagging in his gut, he ignored the tug of anxiety in his throat and dismissed the tightness of his lungs.

Until he took the cap off, and Jerome could see the entirety of his disgusting, sneering mug.

"Jerome? What's wrong, who are you looking at?"

"Was this gala invite only?" Jerome despised the shakiness that infected his voice.

"I don't think so, it's open to anyone who wants to donate." Bruce replied, a certain confusion in his tone.

"There's no way..." The floor felt as if it had opened up and Jerome was falling. A million questions collided and tangled in his mind and he swore the lights in the room had turned brighter, blinding and flashing behind his eyeballs. "He's supposed to be..."

"What? Who? Jerome what is it? Jerome!" Bruce was shaking the older boy's arms but he couldn't get him to snap out of the trance he had fallen into. "That guy? Do you know him? Is that..." Bruce didn't finish his sentence because the look on Jerome's face seemed to tell him the answer.

"I thought he was in prison." Bruce whispered.

The man turned and walked away through the crowd, disappearing towards the exit.

Jerome jolted to life, raging through a few party-goers, some ladies stuck their noses up or gaped in confusion as Jerome pushed and shoved. Bruce trailed after him, weaving through the path Jerome created and apologising profusely along the way.

They reached the lobby, the marble floor turned to an oxblood carpet and a large set of three glass revolving doors allowed the city air to cool Bruce's face. Outside the sky was black and the people that walked the streets turned into moving shadows, occasionally lit by neon signs or car headlights.

Jerome heaved, hot anger branding his cheeks red. His teeth were grinding together audibly and his eyes were glossy. He brought a hand up to tug at his orange hair and squeezed his eyes shut; when he did, it pushed a few tears onto his eyelashes.

"Fuck. Fuck!" He growled, and Bruce raced over, concerned that others may hear. Luckily there were very few people in the lobby, just the occasional yuppie would hurry past.

"Shh Jerome please you have to stay calm." Bruce tried, cringing as he hovered his hands over Jerome's chest.

"Fuck! Why is he here?! Did they let him out early?! How did he find me again?!" Jerome hunched over, his throat raw as he concealed an anxious sob. "How did Owen find me again?"

Bruce's heart sank as he saw Jerome's fury melt away into terror. His hands had started to shake and Jerome noticed that he couldn't breathe. He was having a panic attack.

 _He's come for me._ The though repeated in Jerome's head until he thought he may throw up.  
  
He was stupid for thinking that it would all pass. His actions would follow him, haunt him, linger in the back of his throat, leave a sour taste on his tongue and stain his hands red. Jerome was ignorant for thinking he could live normally. Jerome was foolish for thinking he could run away.

_Jerome was guilty, after all._

His throat closed up until the only sound he could make was a whimper. Jerome wiped his cheeks and his fingers came away glistening. Every breath was arduous, his entire body shuddering. The room was spinning. When did he end up on the floor? His lungs were tied up, knotted tight, and with every breath became tighter and tighter until... he felt a soft hand stroke his cheek.

Jerome's world screeched to a halt.

Another hand cupped his other cheek.

He opened his eyes.

Bruce was so close that Jerome could see the flecks of silver in his irises and even his own wobbly reflection in them. They closed slowly, eyelashes twitching, and a moment of confusion swept through Jerome. Bruce let out a shaky breath-

-and brought his lips to meet Jerome's.

A warmth spread through his chest like he had just downed a mug of Alfred's signature hot chocolate and trickled down into his stomach where it swirled and danced. He let his eyes slide shut and felt the cold air make its way into his chest once again.

Bruce pulled away, "I'm sorry," he whispered, bringing his hands to his chest and staring at the floor, "I didn't know what to do...".

Jerome tilted his chin up and saw that Bruce was glowing pink with embarrassment. He chuckled, _what a dork,_ and crashed their lips together again.

Bruce let out a surprised sound, muscles tensing. After a few seconds, his shoulders dropped and his hands crept up to Jerome's shoulders, then his hair. They stayed like that for a while longer as Jerome allowed the feeling of Bruce's hands playing with his hair and the soft pressure of his lips to breathe life back into his lungs.

When they parted, Jerome stayed captivated by Bruce's wide stare. For a moment, the nagging voice in his head seemed to quieten and soft piano notes and hearty chuckles drifted in from the main hall. Jerome heard the hum of cars that whizzed past and the clack of heels walking on the pavement through the doors.

"Do you want to go back in? Or I can ask Alfred to take us home?" Bruce's voice was weak and breathy.

Jerome swallowed the lump in his throat and simply croaked: "Home."

***

That night Jerome dreamt of sirens. He heard deafening blows on the manor door, the wooping and wailing of a police car and the command of Officer Gordon.

The alarm clock read 3:48.

Jerome wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His eyes unfocussed, mashing together all the shapes of the furniture in front of him into twisting shadows. Electric thoughts zipped through his mind.

He saw police badges and handcuffs, he saw eye-stinging bursts of red and blue light, he saw Owen's smug face watching on with satisfaction. But worst of all, he saw Bruce as a terrified child again in the back alley exit of the Monarch Theatre. He saw his round, wobbling eyes and chewed lips that hung agape. The horror in his face grew as Jerome approached and the heartbreaking reality sank in that Bruce was scared of _him_.

Jerome pushed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars, but the images stayed there. After deciding that sitting on the bed any longer would drive Jerome to insanity and beyond, he tugged a pair of jeans and a hoodie on. Carefully, he snuck through the hallway, remembering which floorboards creaked so he could stealthily avoid them. The front door was always locked at night courtesy of Alfred, so Jerome headed for a window in the kitchen that had the key left in it.

He climbed over the garden wall, scuffing his jeans and grazing his knee. He couldn't care less and started jogging towards Gotham City Centre. As expected, the streets were near empty, save for the occasional sleeping homeless man or pacing hooker. Jerome scanned the signs until he found what he was looking for.

Icy blue letters wrapped around a large curved building that read:

_**THE ICEBERG LOUNGE** _


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo yo lets skip the crap here it is. You have no idea how much pain and trouble this chapter caused me. I deleted the entire thing and had a breakdown but it is back now and enjoy i guess i mean yeah i'm a terrible person i can't update consistently.

By day, the Iceberg Lounge wears a classy facade - one of regality and decency. Those wealthy enough to dine there did so with prim manners, respectfully and orderly. They knew the consequence of misconduct in such a place; amongst Gothamites the lounge was synonymous with the reign of Oswald Cobblepot. Word spread quickly of Cobblepot's omniscience over Gotham, no crime took place without him knowing of it, often times before the GCPD themselves. Some speculated that he had shady ties with the GCPD - a man on the inside, they kept their tongues in their mouths, however, for fear of losing them.

By night, the dome roof wore blue tinted windows, turning the moonlight into a frosty sheen. The icy cast plunged Jerome into nervous shivers. The lounge was almost empty, as expected at such an hour, but Jerome knew different business took place at night than drinks and tapas.

A few beefy men dressed in black scuffed their shoes on the floor and grumbled to each other. Jerome wondered if they were Cobblepot's men.

No harm in asking, right?

He approached on light feet, the swirling in his gut accelerating once he was hit with the stink of tobacco.

"Do you work for Cobblepot?" Jerome croaked, stifling a cough from the stench.

The one with his back to Jerome turned painfully slowly, a snarl tugging at his lips. His face was massive and rough, it looked like no matter how many times he shaved grey stubble still shaded his skin. He was wearing a black turtleneck and blazer, which Jerome would typically find flattering ( _it always looked good on Bruce_ ), except the man's beer belly and angry dog-like face made him look far from fashionable.

"What business do you have with The Penguin?"

Jerome wondered if the man needed to clear his throat or if his voice really was that gruff. _The Penguin?_ Jerome clamped his lips to stop a snicker escaping.

"I want to speak with him." Jerome replied calmly.

"Oh yeah?" The man eyed Jerome head to toe, his two other buddies giving him disgusted looks. Jerome guessed he didn't look like Cobblepot's other _clients_. "You got an appointment?"

Jerome hissed, _shit_ , the guy was organised he had to give him that.

"No, but-"

The man cut off Jerome with a scoff followed by a raspy laugh that smelled of cigarettes. "Sorry kid, can't let you see him unless he's expecting you." Suddenly, Jerome was met with the man's back as he turned to the others. _Kid_.

With balled fists, Jerome stomped towards the exit. He turned to examine the lounge before he left, spotting a door with "NO ENTRY" lettered on it behind the thugs. They were guarding it, Jerome was sure of it.

A thought crossed his mind, a terrible, stupid thought. But an idea nonetheless.

Jerome stepped back out into the street, eyes raking the floor for something useful. He found a rock about the size of his fist by the curb and palmed it, thinking. He noted there were two entrance doors, the one he was standing by and one around the corner of the street.

This was probably the worst idea he had come up with in a while, but it wasn't the worst he'd  _ever_ had, _and it certainly wasn't the last._

Before his conscience could stop him, he threw the rock as hard as he could. The window shattered louder than he had anticipated and immediately he heard the thugs start to yell and the thump of heavy boots. Jerome's heart raced as the adrenaline settled into his muscles.

He sprinted around the corner towards the other door, praying that the thugs had left their positions. He shoved open the glass doors and saw an empty lounge, the thugs were rummaging the street behind him.

Jerome weaved through tables and slammed his shoulder into the "NO ENTRY" door. Luckily, it wasn't locked and Jerome smiled to himself once he cleared it. _That's rather foolish of them, anyone could just traipse in couldn't they?_ He panted slightly, slowing his pace to a brisk walk and chuckling through huffs.

He was walking through a hallway, dimly lit with what looked like an elevator at the end. Jerome entered the elevator and pressed the button for the second floor. Once the doors closed and his pulse returned to normal Jerome allowed the reality of his situation to weaken his knees.

_What the fuck was he doing?_

He couldn't back out now though, and strangely enough, the urge to laugh remained in his throat.

The doors opened and Jerome heard faint chatter. A slow jazz song floated through the air, it sounded old and had a static inflection to it, as if playing from an old gramophone. The room was shadowy and gothic in design: carved wood and twisting furniture, when Jerome turned a corner he saw an oak table with a fireplace as tall as a man glowing proudly behind a throne at the head of the table.

Jerome's throat went dry.

Slouched in the throne, a thin, pale and dark-haired man clasped a small knife in one hand, a chunk of apple in the other with a leg draped over the armrest. He was mumbling something to the man stood next to him between bites, another goon in all black. His hair looked wet and pulled into crude spikes on his forehead, his pinstripe suit was fitted snuggly around his thin frame and his face, as if illustrated by some twisted cartoonist, was sharp and ghostly pale - save for the tip of his long nose where the skin was chilled pink.

The room went silent.

"May I help you?" Cobblepot inquired.

Jerome felt icy pang of nausea as they met gazes.

"You know Gotham better than anyone, right?" He spluttered, not sure where he was going with this.

Cobblepot gave his assistant a concerned glance. "What exactly are you asking for here?"

"Information." Jerome corrected his posture, straightening his back and puffing out his chest. _Get a grip on yourself Jerome._

"Do I have an appointment with you?"

"No." Jerome retorted, pushing aside his worry. When Cobblepot gave his assistant another look as if to say _"how did he get in here?"_ Jerome quickly added: "I can pay though!"

At this, Cobblepot relaxed into his seat. "What do you need to know?"

"I need to know if there was a prison break recently in Arkham."

"I can't say there was, why?" Cobblepot threw a chunk of apple into his mouth.

"Someone who was supposed to be incarcerated there was walking the streets a few hours ago." Jerome felt his fists tighten at the thought.

Cobblepot pondered Jerome's words, taking his time to chew on the apple. The teenager grew agitated. Soon those beefhead security guards would bust through the door and pull Jerome into a headlock.

Cobblepot hummed to himself and pulled his assistant in to whisper into their ear.

Jerome's foot tapped impatiently. _Come on come on._

"I can check the Arkham files to see if he has been reported missing if you give me a name."

"Owen Lloyd." Jerome bit, the words sour on his tongue.

"Come back tomorrow and I can-"

Jerome interjected, taking a step forward, "I need this now."

Cobblepot widened his eyes, surprised at Jerome's response. He whispered to his assistant again, who scuttled off to another room this time.

In the silence that followed, Jerome felt anxiety well up in his stomach. It especially didn't help that he heard the ping of elevator doors opening.

Oh for fucks sake, he was just starting to get what he came for.

"Boys! What's the problem?" Cobblepot crooned.

Jerome didn't want to turn around. Luckily, someone else did it for him. " _You_..." the man from before growled, his fingers digging into Jerome's shoulder. The teenager didn't know wether to be terrified or amused as all three men panted tobacco breath and wiped sweat from red faces. The main guy was glowing red with anger.

"Do you know this boy?" He heard Cobblepot inquire from behind him.

"Yeah, he thought it would be a good idea to break one of your windows to sneak past us." There was gravel in the man's throat as he eyed Jerome furiously.

" _Gosh!_ Someone broke a window?" Jerome tried. It sounded fake as soon as it left his mouth and he accepted his fate as dog food.

"Don't play games with me boy!" The security guard bellowed, gripping Jerome by his collar roughly. The teen's teeth clenched, _boy_ , did he know who he was dealing with?

"Everyone calm down." A commanding voice sliced through the tension and the guard's hand slipped out of Jerome's shirt.

Jerome gulped. "I can pay for that." He muttered under his breath.

Cobblebot barked a laugh and Jerome turned to see him sinking into his throne, a smirk plastered on his face. "Really? You look like a high schooler, kid."

Jerome's ground his teeth together, tension building in his muscles.

"Don't call me a kid. And trust me. I know someone." The teen scratched his neck, he wasn't sure just how safe it was to reveal his closeness to the Wayne fortune around what might as well be Gotham's mafia. He decided to keep his mouth shut. After pulling a smushed ball of crumpled notes from his pocket and throwing it on the table, he realised that he might not have enough...

"I-I can bring more. And some for the window."

Cobblepot eyed the mound of notes and sighed.

While Jerome was busy mentally digging his own grave, the guards now breathing down his neck, the assistant reentered the room and whispered into Cobblepot's ear. His face screwed up with confusion at first, then opened with intrigue, followed by the widest eyes Jerome had ever seen flickering over to meet his.

Cobblepot hummed, leaning forward in his chair and examining Jerome with curious eyes. He broke out into a small snicker and Jerome felt himself tighten further.

"What?", he hissed through taut lips.

The man's laughter just heightened. It was shrill and rough; grating through Jerome's patience quickly. Anger swelled in Jerome's chest, "Tell me!". When Cobblepot brought his eyes to meet Jerome's again, he swore they glowed with sadistic amusement. It struck a shiver of fear through Jerome's stomach.

"He got himself a retrial, he was discharged last week. Turned out the prosecution had overlooked _many details_." Cobblepot's voice was deep and patronising, "The forensic team _especially_ were adamant that their evidence pointed _somewhere else_."

_No_. Jerome wanted nothing more than for Cobblepot to stop talking, yet with a morbid satisfaction that Jerome despised, he continued: "In fact, officer Gordon filed a report yesterday morning confirming that he has a suspect."

Jerome felt dizzy, brought to nausea by the very thought. The room was spinning and suddenly his thighs were colliding with the oak of the table as he stumbled. He dragged his legs over to Cobblepot's throne, seething with something that sat between rage and terror. The man remained calm as Jerome neared, a wide smirk splitting his cheeks. "You're lying... You're lying!" He threw his fist into Cobblepot's chest, grabbing him by the lapels. In his peripheral he saw the goons rushing over but Cobblepot waved them off.

Jerome didn't think Cobblepot was lying one bit, he just didn't want this to be his reality.

"Now why would I do that, _Jerome_?"

Jerome's breath caught in his throat.

As he sprinted out of sight, Cobblepot's laughter rang through his head all the way to the elevator.

***

Out of all the promiscuous bars and clubs Jerome could have half-consciously stumbled into, this one seemed somewhat decent. Sure, only a certain brand of people choose to get drunk that early in the morning, but to Jerome anyone was better than that pointy-nosed bastard.

Jerome rubbed his eyes, fatigue dripping back into him.

"You sure you're in the right place?" The bartender asked.

There it was again, people treating him like a kid. Jerome thought he deserved a drink. _Or ten. How much would it take for Jerome to get drunk? How much until he lost consciousness completely?_ He felt half way there already.

In retaliation he decided to give the man a sour glare.

He eyed the colourful shelves of liqueurs and spirits. He had no idea what any of them were, but a bright blue one caught his eye.

_Fuck it._

"I'll have a glass of..." he pointed at the blue liquid, "that."

The bartender eyed him up and down before snorting out a laugh. "ID?"

"Left it at home." Jerome lied through his teeth.

"Sorry I can't serve you. Nice try."

_Damn_. He sighed. Then Jerome remembered he blew all his money on Cobblepot and asked for a tap water.

Slumped against the bar, Jerome waited for the bartender to get ice for his water. He considered running, just for a moment, but it was there. He thought about running away for good, out of Gotham and away from Owen.

Away from Bruce and Alfred.

_Bruce..._

_Bruce had kissed him._

Jerome's chest stung, something sharp throbbing on his heart like a papercut.

"H-huh?" _Shit_ , someone was talking to Jerome.

" _I said_ , isn't it a bit unsafe for a kid your age to be hanging around this part of Gotham at this hour?" A croaky man in ugly cowboy boots and a black beard grumbled.

Ha. Ha ha.

_Isn't it a bit unsafe to get drunk next to a killer?_

"Why are you here anyway, don't you have school tomorrow or something?" The man's head lulled side to side, as if it weighed twice as much as usual.

Anger welled up in Jerome again and he found himself wondering if hitting a man over the head with a glass bottle would kill him. _If a full bottle or an empty bottle is best? How much force would it take to break the bottle? How much force would it take to break the skull?_

A hand pushed a glass of ice water in front of him.

***

Jerome cursed under his breath as he crossed the field that surrounded Wayne Manor. The sun had started rising, an orange glow emerging from the sky. He clambered through the same window and silently made his way to his room.

On the way, Jerome carefully pried Bruce's door open. He was met with a sight that made his insides turn to sugar.

Fast asleep and tangled in his white bedsheets, Bruce's pink face was smushed into a pillow. Jerome got closer and saw his lips puffing out small breaths.

_He was going to ruin this boy._

***

"Jeerrrooome! Wake up! It's nearly twelve. Jerome. Jerome! Wakey wakey... Don't make me get water involved-"

Jerome sprang out of bed faster than his own body could handle, his limbs slipping and thwacking the bedside table. "Christ, fuck just give me.. give me a minute."

"Why are you still in bed?" Bruce poked Jerome on the shoulder.

Jerome grumbled, memories of the travesty that was the previous night swirling into a blurry soup in his head. "Rough night."

Bruce hummed, "You missed breakfast. Alfred made pancakes."

_Damn. That was Jerome's favourite._

"Do you think he could make any more?" Jerome rubbed his eyes.

"Too late," Bruce chirped, "he's making lunch now." He grabbed the door handle and swung back and forth on his heels. _Still such a child._

Throughout the day, Jerome couldn't shake the overwhelming wrongness that coated his daily tasks. It was jarring - Jerome's reality felt as if it had been turned upside down... but everyone else continued walking right side up.

The day dragged into evening and Jerome couldn't stand it anymore. The words in his textbook moved around on the page and it was impossible for him to retain any kind of information. Alfred had even given him a lecture on punctuality and all he heard was a fuzzy, screeching white noise that only grew louder the longer he sat still. The more he heard it the more it sounded like sirens. 

Sat alone on his balcony, Bruce scribbled pointless doodles into a moleskin book. He pondered the latest meeting at Wayne Enterprises he had attended. He still despised the way they tried to dumb everything down for him, consequently missing vital details. It had been a long hour of listening to men in suits frown at each other and disagree about this and that and taxes and funding and _money money money._

He sighed and scribbled through his rather lop-sided drawing of a cat.

"Hey." Jerome's soft voice made Bruce jump.

"Oh, hey."

Jerome stepped out onto the balcony and sat in the chair next to Bruce. Silence hung over them a little longer than comfortable.

"Uh, are you feeling okay?" Bruce said into his book.

Jerome said nothing.

"Is it... because of Owen?"

Nothing.

"Or is it... because I kissed you?" Bruce whispered.

Defensively, Jerome shook his head and pulled his chair closer to Bruce. "No. No it's not that. Its- agh...", Jerome's throat closed tightly, "It's Owen."

"Oh." Bruce spoke in a fragile voice that ran daggers through Jerome's chest. He was fumbling with his notebook, hand absent-mindedly scraping a block of black ink over the corner of the page. Jerome couldn't help but be amused by Bruce's blatant coyness.

"Bruuuce..." he crooned, a smirk tugging at his lips once he saw the way the younger boy gulped. His eyes were alarmingly wide.

"Y-yeah." He had gone pink. How cute.

Jerome bit his lip, a sliver of him realising this was his last chance to back out. He pushed through anyway.

"Do you like me?"

Bruce's answer seemed to jump up and down in his throat for a while before he blurted out: "Yes of course you're great." Jerome shook his head.

"No, Bruce." He leaned in close, closer than Bruce was prepared for telling by the hitch in his breath, and hovered his mouth by his ear. " _Do_ _you_ _like_ _me_?" He repeated, slower and deeper just to get the message across.

Bruce swallowed.

"I'm sorry."

Out of all the things Jerome expected Bruce to whisper, that wasn't one of them. His voice sounded as if it was on the verge of cracking, a sob rising in his throat as he whimpered.

Jerome leaned back to connect eyes with the boy, only to see he had clamped them shut. Gently, he slid his fingertips under his chin to keep his head from diving back into into his chest. "What are you sorry for?"

"Because I know you don't like me back." Bruce's cry wavered through his words. He was holding in tears - it showed in the way he blinked rapidly. Eyes pink and lacquered with tears, Bruce finally let his gaze connect with Jerome's and it became so much harder to hold himself together. The winding tightness in his chest unravelled in one go, leaving him breathless as he stared at Jerome's face.

  
He had never meant to fall for the older boy. He didn't know when it started, but he remembered feeling butterflies in his stomach whenever he teased him. When he lifted him up, when he ruffled his hair, when he flashed him a smile that said "Only Joking" after every quip.

He had never meant for Jerome to know. But the way Jerome cried that night sparked something in his chest that he couldn't ignore and he had acted on impulse. After the way they had danced, Bruce couldn't run away from it.

  
Jerome had considered the possibility of Bruce liking him many times, in fact, the twerp was such a bad liar that Jerome had an inkling for months. However, the thought of Jerome liking Bruce that way had only surfaced a handful of times.

For example, whenever Bruce laughed so hard he snorted and turned a radiant shade of strawberry red. One time Alfred had slipped on a wet patch in the kitchen and fell into a position not far from the splits - Bruce had choked on his apple juice and it came out of his noise rather violently.

He thought about it when Bruce got really passionate during games. The two boys being competitive in nature generally lead to intense game nights with Alfred left de-lodging scrabble pieces from the chandelier. One time in particular they had been playing Cluedo and Jerome had claimed that "Normal Cluedo" was too boring for them to play. Ten minutes later Alfred was lying on the library floor, face covered in ketchup with a piece of paper saying "WHO KILLED ME?" taped to his chest. The way Bruce's face had lit up as he traveled the manor halls with his magnifying glass made Jerome chortle. He was projecting that he was "Detective Wayne" AKA "The Greatest Detective in Gotham".

He considered it when Bruce had slid into Jerome's room blubbering, holding a blanket over his face and hiccupping between breaths. He didn't say a word, he just ambled, toes facing inwards with his sweater pulled over his hands towards Jerome and climbed onto his lap. His small body slotted into Jerome's chest and they stayed until Bruce stopped shuddering. Alfred had poked his head through the door and Jerome had mouthed "What happened?". Alfred held up a DVD box for Toy Story 3 and suddenly it all made sense.

_Maybe he thought about it a bit more than a handful of times._

 

A stinging sensation prickled Jerome's nose and eyes.

"Bruce...", the words dried out in his throat.

_You're beautiful._

Bruce was blushing. Had he said that out loud?

Jerome noticed how close their faces were when he felt his lips brush against Bruce's nose. Something electric was swirling in the pit of his stomach, it was dragged down to his toes and out to his fingertips, lingering behind his eyes until he saw stars and in the next moment he felt his lips collide with Bruce's.

Everything seemed to fade far away and melt until there was only him and the younger boy. Nervous fingers slid against his cheek, not sure where to settle on Jerome's skin. Jerome brought his hand up to hold Bruce's nape, coaxing a small shudder when he brushed the skin.

Gaining confidence, Jerome began to move his lips. He felt Bruce adjust to the rhythm, sliding his other hand across Jerome's chest and squeezing his shirt.

To Bruce, his entire world had narrowed to the soft warmth of Jerome's lips and the gentle circle of the pad of his thumb on his cheek. The sensations lulled him into comfort, the shakiness in his limbs finally relenting and the anxiety in his stomach being replaced with something new. Something bright.

Jerome pulled away first, the curl of his lips showing something akin to sincerity - not his usual playful smirk. Bruce's stomach flipped and it was almost impossible to resist kissing him again.

"Does that mean you like me?" The younger boy's sweet voice made Jerome laugh. 

"Yes."

"What are we going to tell Alfred?" Bruce whispered.

Jerome's eyes glinted with a mischievous sheen. "We're not."

 


End file.
